Teenage Nightmare
by gschelt
Summary: A character study, a love story, a navigation and narrative of Quinn Fabray's struggle with her sexuality and her friendship with Rachel Berry. Set at the beginning of Season 2. Faberry.
1. Chapter 1: The Crucifix

_**Author's Note:** Faberry is my obsession of all obsessions, especially the Fabray half. Quinn is one of those tremendously fascinating, unplumbed characters... who is of course a pressed lemon. This story is set beginning of season 2; after baby but before Sam._  
><em>I own nothing.<em>  
><em>And please, dear readers, review.<em>

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><p>Quinn Fabray doesn't need another reason to be kicked out again. She's known it all along, and that's why she keeps it close, like the crucifix that presses hot against her collarbone like the searing brand forced on an animal. It's what it feels like to her, at least.<p>

She's known it all along. She's gone years, parts of childhood even, knowing what could make her parents (and god) hate her. If that's not suffocating, she doesn't know what is. It's still better than homeless, or worse, unloved, or worse still, disgraced, so she keeps it close.

In keeping this secret so close, Quinn began to asphyxiate herself. It was inevitable. So she started to try things that she hoped would give her a gasp for air every now and then.

Boys. Boys and everything that comes along with them.

It had the potential of becoming a vicious circle, sex, and Quinn found out too late that she'd known it all along. Not wanting to get kicked out. Trying to prevent that, trying to fix herself, and having sex with boys. Getting knocked up. Getting kicked out. Anyone else would call it cruel irony, but Quinn calls it a relief. She pictures her father's thin, bloodless lips spelling out _slut _and _get out of my house_ more readily than he'd ever said an Our Father and she figures, well, at least it's just that. As far as getting kicked out, better this _mistake _than the alternative.

It's an odd sort of complacence that would make any other teenage girl cry, but being glad the punishment isn't worse is basically Christianity. To Quinn, at least. That's what it's meant to her for as long as she can remember.

Quinn Fabray definitely doesn't need another reason to be kicked out again, though. She knows when to count her blessings, and this is one of those times. Now she's back home, and though she's walking on pins and needles that carpet the entire house for her, and though she has one less parent to worry about, she's going to be careful. One slip-up and there's no going back. Her dad may be gone, and her mom may have let Quinn come back, but some things are just unforgivable. She's still gone for good if she provides that one reason. She's known it all along, and that's why she keeps it close, like the red and white cheerleading uniform that hugs her body like armor. Quinn has always seen it as armor that defends her against being anything but perfect.

Because who would ever suspect it of a cheerleader?

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><p>When Quinn somehow gets Rachel Berry as a duet partner for Glee Club, it's no big deal. Quinn doesn't hold any grudges against the other girl for last year, for dating Finn or for not getting pregnant or for anything petty like that. Quinn never cared about Finn anyway, and she knows it's not Rachel's fault for having two parents that love her more than Quinn's do her. Besides, Rachel's nice to Quinn, and nobody's ever anything much more than civil to Quinn Fabray. She's known <em>that <em>all along, and has kept it close all these years, like the knot of insecurity that lives in her chest.

It's when Rachel suggests that they practice this song at Quinn's house because they're laying down new carpet at Rachel's (probably neither pins nor needles, probably Berber, lucky girl) - it's then that Quinn tenses up. This is one of those things that could present a reason. Not _the _reason, but a reason all the same.

Rachel Berry isn't the kind of friend Quinn wants to have if she is trying as hard as she can not to get kicked out. Quinn's parents have talked about Rachel Berry and her "family" before. They've talked about them for years. The Berrys are Jewish, and that's bad enough, but Rachel also has two dads.

Quinn hasn't actually _always_ known the other reason she could get kicked out. She first knew in elementary school when her parents told her that her classmate, Rachel Berry, was being raised by homosexuals, and that all three of the Berrys were sick, terrible people. She was then told that being gay like Rachel Berry's two dads was a very serious sin. She was then told not to have anything to do with Rachel Berry.

Quinn Fabray, all-American cheerleader, Christian, and blonde, actually found out she was gay in the eighth grade. Ever since then she's kept it close, like the crucifix that presses hot against her collarbone like the millstone around the neck of a drowning man. It's what it feels like to her, at least.

"No," Quinn says, a little too loudly and a little too suddenly, and Rachel starts. Quinn takes a few deep breaths. "I don't think that's a good idea," is all she says. She tries to play it cool. She doesn't want to embarrass Rachel with the truth, that she's ashamed of her. Maybe she could explain it if she and Rachel were friends, but it's not like that.

"Oh." Rachel shrugs matter-of-factly. "Okay, that's fine. We can ask the secretary for the key to the chorus room, I'm sure she'd give it to us. The acoustics in there make my voice sound better anyway." Blessedly, Rachel chooses not to ask any questions. She glosses over the moment and changes the subject in an awkward rush, and Quinn can tell, but Quinn is thankful all the same.


	2. Chapter 2: The Booth

_**Author's Note:**Just like Rachel Berry lives off of applause, I live off of reviews. Let me know what you think. :)_

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><p>She watches Rachel sing that afternoon, studying her curiously and carefully, and repeats the ritual again the next day during Glee, and the next day too. She turns over Rachel Berry in her head, analyzing what she'd always thought (and been taught to think) about her. Quinn spent years believing her parents' assertion that Rachel Berry was a lesbian, gay just like her dads, and now that she's older she knows that Rachel's not, but still she wonders about the subject. Quinn thinks, if Rachel <em>were <em>gay, she has the perfect set of parents suited to love her just the same.

Quinn's not going to get kicked out again - she's dead set on it never happening - but she spends a lot of time thinking about it. She can't help it. It's that teenage nightmare that's going to follow her around until she's rid of the possibility, hugging her close like the skin she can't shed. And she pictures it: who she would confide in, where she would go, etc. Curiously, the Berrys spring up in her imagination a lot. After all, they're the only (other) gay people Quinn knows of in Lima besides Kurt.

Then Quinn remembers that she and Rachel aren't friends, and it's silly to imagine being welcomed in the Berry household. Not after all those years she spent making Rachel's adolescent life a living hell. What does it matter that she'd stopped - for good - after the first time she got kicked out, or that she had never put her heart into it to begin with. Nothing can change the past. Quinn knows that one for sure, from her mother's eyes still communicating an inability to love her. She's known it all along.

So Quinn practices singing with Rachel after school, and she finds that she likes it. Rachel's a great distraction from everything at home, and everything about the shallow conversation they share puts Quinn's mind at ease. They sit in the chorus room, going over the same verses over and over again, making very little eye contact. Quinn listens to Rachel do most of the talking. It's a comfortable sort of thing, and Quinn likes the unspoken agreement that their less-than-friendly past is ignored. That Quinn's catty past - which she's not so proud of, among other things - is ignored. Quinn's noticed that Rachel has a tendency to gloss over the subjects that Quinn wants to disappear, and for that she's more grateful than anything.

One day Quinn forgets to think before she opens her mouth. "Did your dads ever talk to you about if you were gay?" she asks while Rachel shuffles sheet music over by the piano. Quinn sits in the front row, still in her uniform, and her mouth has suddenly gone dry. Too soon.

Rachel looks up quickly, then averts her gaze back to the papers in her hand. "No," she says curtly, nostrils flaring.

"I mean," Quinn says hastily, "I'm not implying you're a lesbian or anything." She rolls her eyes and waves her hand dismissively, like being a lesbian is the last thing anyone would want to be, and dies a little on the inside. "I'm just curious to know, like, since both your parents are gay, how they would feel about it if you were too. Wouldn't you think that they would be the most accepting out of any kind of parents?"

"I don't know," Rachel all but snaps. Quinn looks at the floor and decides to leave it alone. Rachel probably gets stupid questions about having two dads all the time, and she must be sensitive about it.

Rachel doesn't stay mad, though. She softens quickly, within the afternoon; she seems to be almost nicer to Quinn than before. It's strange, this shift, but Quinn doesn't mind. She even likes it, even finds that she likes Rachel and Rachel's company. As long as she doesn't let her mind touch on why, she's fine. Thinking about the fact that Rachel might have seen something in her, something to be pitied - that's too much for Quinn to handle.

Quinn doesn't need for anyone to have a reason to pity her. She detests the destitute feeling, weakness or stares, and she's known it all along, so that's why she keeps any indication of weakness as close as her skin. That's what it feels like to her, at least. Her weakness feels like a second skin sometimes.

So Quinn, spooked by her own verbal slip-up, closes herself off. She regrets having ever said anything about homosexuality or loving parents, the two subjects where she's weakest. Even if Rachel never said anything about it, as she never does, intuitively, when Quinn doesn't want her to, Quinn worries about having given something away with her body language or a tremor anywhere - her voice, her lips, her hands - as she always does. Rachel may be harmless - a social nobody who wouldn't know what to do with invaluable dirt even if she was buried alive in it - but Quinn's fastidious. She can't take chances with _anyone _knowing her secret.

Rachel, however, doesn't back off. As Quinn shrinks away from Rachel because of everything she could ever discover, Rachel firmly persists. She keeps up with pushing the stupid duet practices, latching on to Quinn's locker once or twice daily to talk singing or even just the weather, when she thinks Quinn won't notice. But Quinn notices Rachel trying to be friendly or even friends, she's not so distanced yet. And she's sort of touched, even though she's not supposed to be friends or even want to be friends with Rachel. But here Rachel is, talking to her even though the duet thing has been done for a week and even though Quinn's personal bubble used to be strictly off-limits to her and other people like her, and ignoring all those factors that should make any interaction unbearably uncomfortable, and finally Quinn just turns to Rachel and asks her if she wants to do dinner over the weekend. Partly it's to shut her up. And mainly it's to get her talking more, ultimately; now _that's _a crazy idea if Quinn's ever had one.

She feels a need to justify to herself; for hanging out, her house is out of the question, and she's not ready to even think about being in Rachel's bedroom or putting the strain of playing hostess on the poor high-strung girl. Breadsticks is really the only option left. It's a last resort, so there's no way that it's a… you know. Date.

Quinn doesn't need another reason for being with Rachel to be awkward. And if it turns out that she's known about some sort of feelings for Rachel Berry all along, she's going to be one pissed off cheerleader. A stupid little crush is just about the last thing she needs. She's not going to let this or any other rendezvous with Rachel Berry turn into a date without her permission anytime soon.

Still, when Rachel says yes Quinn's stomach clenches inexplicably, and when Rachel smiles at her - shy and humble - as though she's just been paid a compliment by a boy, it does a somersault. This _never _happens to Quinn. Boys don't trigger the visceral gymnastics; they never have. And as for girls, Quinn always stays staunchly stony and impassive, never allowing herself even the chance for anything she considers dangerous to take seed. So when Rachel elicits this surprise reaction, Quinn hastily panics for a good two seconds (with a blessedly discreet gasp) but then pushes it all away and ignores it.

There are all these reasons she doesn't need, but when it comes to gut instinct Quinn has never been big on reasoning. That's why she tends to end up in so much trouble. That's why she chooses to ignore these warning signs.

Because when it all comes down to it, Quinn is and always has been a very smart girl. She's very good at tricking herself. Last year it was messing around and making herself believe she could be straight. Now it's going out with Rachel Berry and making herself believe it's solely about friendship.

There's one thing Quinn can't ignore, though, and that's the looks Finn keeps giving her. She tries not to notice, but whenever she passes by him his eyes narrow. They have nothing to say to one another, so she's not going to confront him, but she knows that whatever it is has to mean something. It's suspicion on his part, she's sure of it, and it needles her and makes her uncomfortable. Guilty, even, perhaps, for these thoughts and intentions about his girlfriend that Quinn can't bear to internalize. If the girl's boyfriend doesn't like what he sees, then things are getting out of hand in all the ways that embody Quinn's worst fears.

She convinces herself it's what it probably is, though: simple mistrust of her motives. She's never exactly been nice to Rachel up until recently, and Finn knows that. This sudden friendship of sorts must seem suspicious to him, but if he's wary it's because he doesn't want Rachel getting hurt. If he's afraid of anything, it's of Quinn being up to something bitchy, not of Quinn making a pass at his girl. It's times like these that Quinn is more grateful than anything that no one knows her secret. She knows she has nothing to worry about with Finn. Rachel, however, might be another story if Quinn's not careful.

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><p>At Breadstix on Saturday night, Quinn looks down at her napkin and casually asks what the deal is with Finn giving her the stink eye lately. Rachel, quite possibly overdressed if this isn't a date (but absolutely radiant just the same), shrugs meekly and stays silent for a moment or two.<p>

"He's worried about me," she says simply, shifting her weight in her seat. Quinn imagines the smooth leather of the booth sticking momentarily to a strip of skin exposed on Rachel's thighs below the hem of her emerald-green dress, and swallows, reaching instinctively for her glass of water.

"He worries you may be trying to trick me," Rachel continues, a rueful smile creeping up her lips. "I told him you're just lonely."

Quinn's gaze snaps up from her lap to Rachel. "You said that?" she demands. The thought of Finn pitying her is mortifying.

Rachel gulps, regret painting her trembling mouth like lipstick, and Quinn instantly forgives her. The poor girl is terrified of Quinn's disapproval. "I… well…" Rachel backpedals.

"Don't worry about it," Quinn sighs dismissively. "If anyone already knows how pathetic I am, it's Finn. I guess I don't need to worry about what he thinks." That's a lie, if Quinn's ever told one. She worries about what everyone thinks.

Rachel frowns. "You're not pathetic," she says softly. "You just don't let people in. Why do you worry so much about what people think about you?"

Quinn looks at her lap and smiles wanly. "Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Phil," she chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I'm serious," Rachel persists, knowingly pushing her luck. Her dark eyes flash with concern. Quinn wonders if Rachel really does care or if she's exhibiting her characteristic need to know everything that's going on with everyone.

Quinn sighs again and decides to trust it's the former even if it's not. "I don't know," she breathes in possibly feigned exasperation. "I guess I just have issues. Everyone does. I just want mine to belong only to me. No one can hurt you that way."

"Kids can be cruel," Rachel agrees knowingly, seeming to speak more to herself than Quinn.

Quinn is suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of remorse for Rachel and what she'd put her through in the past, a feeling she hadn't yet let take hold of her in the past few weeks of getting to know her. This is a vicious cycle she supposes she's never even considered, much less known about all along. The cycle of petty torture and the ensuing karma, not by payback from the victim, but by the even more potent sting of regret.

"Do you believe him?" Quinn asks, interrupting a heavy and thoughtful pause.

Rachel blinks. "Believe who?"

"Finn. That I'm trying to-"

"No," Rachel blurts hastily, her liquid brown eyes going wide with sincerity, "I don't. I really don't."

Quinn simply shakes her head, marveling at this girl's blind naivety. For all Rachel knows, Quinn really could be one hell of an actress, building up to the slushie of all slushies. But no. Here she is regardless, sitting before Quinn with this unflaggingly trusting drive towards friendship and reconciliation.

Rachel's lonely too. There's no doubt that Quinn has known it all along. It's just never really struck her until now.


	3. Chapter 3: The Piano

_**Author's Note:** Shit's bout to get real._  
><em>bribing you for more reviews with a longer chapter... pathetic and failing to be sneaky.<br>_

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><p>The next week passes just as the last one had, which is a huge victory on the "not-a-date-with-Rachel-Berry" front. Still, as Quinn continues to catch Finn's disapproving gaze out of the corner of her eye, she begins to wonder about the haste with which Rachel had glossed over his mistrust over dinner. Rachel's a horrible liar, and Quinn is just calculating enough to know it. She knows there's something Rachel's not telling her. And besides, if Rachel really did tell Finn that Quinn's lonely, why is he still so leery of her? The big (harmless) oaf is supposed to be such a sap that he deflates over stuff like sad girls.<p>

It's not a subject she wants to push with Rachel, though. Quinn knows how to wheedle information from just about anyone, much less a laughably open book like Rachel Berry, but this is something she doesn't want to touch. Things are just beginning to go well, and Quinn has this inexplicable feeling that pressing the subject further with Rachel could be ruinous.

So she forces herself to forget about it. If it's one thing she's learned over the years, it's that she is and always has been best at bullying herself. Whenever Quinn wants something to happen on the inside, it happens, as she forces herself to ignore a number of things in order to keep it together… even if it means squashing truth and almost completely destroying her emotions sometimes. Repression has become a ritual for Quinn, and it scares her sometimes how empty - and _complacently _empty - she's become as a result of it.

So she forces herself to forget about Finn (and Rachel), shoving away nagging insecurities that could chip away at her substantially if she lets them stick around long enough. That plan, however, is rudely sabotaged.

"Sing with me?" Rachel asks hopefully, having turned to Quinn the minute the word "duet" fell out of Mr. Schue's mouth. Quinn may be extremely smart, but she's apparently not smart enough in this moment to think about anyone, much less Finn or his stupid eyes.

"I…" Quinn falters, taken aback by the swiftness of the brunette's request and by the excitement behind it. It's all happening so fast; it seems only yesterday that the two of them had tentatively sung their first duet together, shy like strangers and unsure of how to act outside of the "enemy" zone.

But she answers before she can stop herself, moving slowly to speak to her former victim as though underwater, or in a dream. "Sure, I guess that'd-"

"Rachel!" Finn leans over from behind them like a big football-playing storm cloud, and Quinn catches a beam of happiness flit across Rachel's face before Finn's shadow crosses it and replaces it with distraction. "Rachel, we're gonna sing together, right?"

Rachel frowns thoughtfully. "Oh Finn, I already asked Quinn to be my duet partner."

Finn frowns too, though his expression is more a mixture of confusion and mild chagrin. "Quinn?" he repeats bluntly. He doesn't even look at Quinn or acknowledge her presence there. Quinn's stomach, in turn, does another one of those flip-flops she's come to dread around Rachel Berry, now a mark of the foreboding sense of unease she feels at getting in between Rachel and Finn. She remains silent.

"Yes," Rachel replies, regretfully but firmly. "I'm sorry, Finn."

He raises his shoulders and squints at Rachel in disbelief. "Aren't these, like, supposed to be guy-girl things though? Don't you think this is kind of weird?"

This time it's a full-on lurch in Quinn's gut. She knows Finn's not outright calling her a lesbian, but it still hits dangerously close enough to home that she's severely spooked. If this looks weird, there's no way it can be good. Quinn's mouth immediately goes dry, but she attempts to speak up regardless.

"Rachel, you don't have to-"

"I want to sing with Quinn," Rachel says deliberately, now seeming to get more annoyed with Finn. "I asked her first and it would be pretty rude to rescind just for the sake of our attachment, don't you think? Besides, Quinn's voice complements mine astoundingly well."

For probably the first time in her high-school career, Quinn is at a loss for words. Or rather, she does indeed have a number of well-placed barbs swimming around her head at the ready to back Rachel up and emasculate Finn, but she chooses to keep silent. Bitchy remarks won't do her well. Not much of anything she could add would do her much good now. And, unsettlingly, Quinn realizes her uncharacteristically shy and awkward silence is probably doubling the weirdness she so fears about this situation.

"I…uh…" Finn stammers, looking around the chorus room irritably. "Okay, fine. Have fun with Quinn." It's not hard to miss the barely-masked bitterness in Finn's voice as he all but spits that last sentence at Rachel, and with a final glare at Quinn he gets up to find another partner.

Rachel turns back to the front primly, scanning the board matter-of-factly, but Quinn can see that her brow is clouded and her chin is trembling slightly, the classic signs of Rachel Berry deep in thought - and bothered, by the looks of it. Quinn doesn't want to think about how she's able to read Rachel so easily. That would imply an observance of Rachel, a close study of the other girl she doesn't even know she'd ever leveled on her for all these years of not caring. It doesn't bear thinking about. Quinn doesn't need another reason to make being around Rachel difficult - though maybe a little difficulty and possibly even dissuasion would be for the best. It's starting to look that way, especially with the Finn thing being a part of the equation.

"I'm sorry about that," Rachel says sidelong to Quinn in a casually high voice, flipping pages in her gingham-patterned day planner and pretending to busy herself with whatever's written in it (with little hearts dotting the i's, Quinn imagines with unsettlingly fond amusement in the back of her mind). "His jealousy issues get a little irrational sometimes," she continues, bringing Quinn back from her unprecedented reverie about Rachel's handwriting. "… not just with other boys."

Quinn's gut clenches forcibly, and her heartbeat even quickens this time. She's gotten relatively close - closer is the word, though, no one's getting ahead of themselves - to a girl and induced boyfriend-jealousy. The tiles of the chorus room floor seem to dance before Quinn's eyes as one thought echoes in her brain. _He knows_. But he can't know. There's just no way he could find out. So maybe he just guessed.

Or maybe he doesn't like his current girlfriend spending so much time with his ex.

Either way, Quinn remains silent for the rest of the hour. She numbly brushes off each of Rachel's attempts to engage her in conversation until the brunette gives up, subdued.

Quinn doesn't need another reason for things between Finn and herself to be awkward, but she's never really cared about him, and she's known _that _all along - ever since the first time he kissed her and she let him. So that's why she confronts him. Besides, her anxiety is going to suffocate her if she doesn't.

"What's your deal, Finn?" She stands at his locker between classes the next day, more than a head shorter than him but outwardly quite unfazed. She notices he's caught off guard with some grim satisfaction, somewhat hating at the same time how worryingly easy it is to slip back into this cold and cast-off second skin of bitchiness. She doesn't like that her trademark glare and hands on hips are so handy in her arsenal, and she doesn't like how good it feels once again.

"What do you mean?" he deadpans, brow furrowed, as he shoves books into his locker.

"You know what I mean," Quinn snaps back, hating him too for a split second. "What's your beef with me?" She falters. "…and Rachel?" she adds, making this about the box set.

"I don't have beef with you," Finn answers pointedly, looking away. He may not be outright lying, but he's obviously not telling the truth.

"Bullshit." She stands before him patiently, waiting for an answer with an eyebrow quirked dangerously, but when she doesn't get one she presses on. "I'm not blind. I can see your childish little stink eye every time you look at me. I just want an explanation, okay?"

Finn just narrows his eyes at her defensively. Quinn knows she's not getting anywhere with this attitude, and besides, her heart's not really in it. She's about to heave a sigh and try another, more genuine angle when Finn opens his mouth.

"I just don't like it," he exclaims, eyes becoming squinty from all the frowning he's doing. "It's weird. You guys are spending too much time together all of a sudden."

Quinn's insides twist at the implications of his words, even though it may as well just be her interpretation of them. Still, her irritation outweighs her worry. "So Rachel's not allowed to have any friends?" she snaps, crossing her arms. Her previous preoccupation evaporates momentarily, replaced by a fierce concern for Rachel and Finn's apparent disregard for her loneliness.

Finn, however, just snorts derisively. "Since when is Rachel good enough to be your friend?"

Quinn opens her mouth and is about to reply with something definitely cutting and possibly loyal (though her mind is still blank when she opens her mouth to speak, all she knows is that her blood is boiling from some unprecedented Rachel Berry protective instinct) when she catches movement to her right and stops short. A shift in Finn's weight reveals Rachel standing just off to the side where no one had been just a second ago. The look on her face, a new (to Quinn) combination of hurt, disappointment and anger, indicates that she's at least heard Finn's last remark.

"Thanks, Finn," she says in a low and level voice, glaring at him. Both he and Quinn are too stunned to react as Rachel quickly walks off in the direction she'd been heading.

"Shit, Finn," Quinn sighs after a minute or so of silence, shaking her head. She turns on her heel and, against her better judgment, jogs off to look for Rachel.

Quinn knows where to find Rachel without even having to think about it. She's not proud of this knowledge, and tries not to think about it as she jogs through the now-deserted hallways, ponytail swinging back and forth doggedly, but countless memories flash through her head: Rachel, on the verge of tears because of a needlessly cruel remark instigated or delivered personally by Quinn, turning on her heel and hurrying off to the chorus room. Quinn knows all too well about Rachel's place of solace, having sent her there dozens of times. She grits her teeth, trying as she has been for the past few weeks to block it out. It makes her hate herself, and hate Rachel too for putting up with her shit and having to hurt over her for so long. She's so full of hatred sometimes that she doesn't even know who she's angry with.

In the end, it's never anyone but herself.

Sure enough, as Quinn approaches the chorus room she catches broken strains of piano melody floating from underneath the door, and when she opens the door and slips inside, Rachel is there sitting at the bench. She sits alone in the room, staring down at the keys dejectedly as she listlessly plays a simple but very pretty tune. A teardrop falls onto the ivory keys.

"Rachel," Quinn calls out to her, striding closer breathlessly. "There you are."

Rachel looks up slowly in melancholy surprise, her graceful (and decidedly not mannish) fingers stilling. The last chords hang in the air for a few moments.

"Hi Quinn," she says softly, smiling weakly and looking back down.

Quinn walks up to the piano but stops short, unsure of how to bring herself to do anything consoling, like sit next to Rachel on the bench and put her arm around her. Instead, she stands before her, sighing. She's never been good at this.

"Rachel, are you okay?" she asks. Her voice is even and clear, like always, but in her mind it still sounds lame.

Shrugging morosely, Rachel absently dances her fingers silently along the black and white keys. "If I was _really _upset, I'd probably be in the auditorium right now," she finally admits quietly. "I'd be singing a slowed and stripped down version of 'Build Me Up, Buttercup' by The Foundations in a different key, the better to convey my emotions."

Quinn takes another step forward, closing the distance between her and Rachel. "Listen, I'm sorry you had to hear that. It's, uh… I'm sorry." She honestly doesn't know how to console anyone. It was always Brittany who followed Santana into the girls' bathroom when Santana was having boy or family problems, and Quinn has never really cared about any other girl's feelings. It strikes her as odd that she does now.

"It's alright, Quinn," Rachel sighs, her dark brown eyes huge and baleful. "You have nothing to apologize for."

But she does. A good half minute goes by, with Quinn staring searchingly at Rachel, whose eyes are averted. Quinn knows she has an infinite number of things to apologize for, everything that's been pushed aside and swept under the rug for the sake of forgiveness and this budding friendship. Rachel has seemed complacent these past few weeks with just knowing Quinn's sorry, not needing to hear the words, and how much Quinn is relieved by that is another thing she can't verbalize. But still, some things kill Quinn staying unspoken.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" she blurts impatiently, goosebumps covering every inch of skin underneath her snug red and white uniform.

Rachel looks up at Quinn again and blinks. "Because you're being a good friend, I thought." Her voice holds the weight of so much trust that it honestly scares Quinn.

Quinn draws in a sharp intake of breath. "But why don't you care that it's me and not your boyfriend? Don't you want it to be him that's comforting you?" She pauses to inhale and exhale a few times, gazing into Rachel's eyes intently. "And why don't you care that I'm so out of character?"

Rachel bites her lip, her deep breathing through flared nostrils matching Quinn's heaving chest. "I _do _care about your change of heart, Quinn," she admits. "In fact, I'm quite taken with it."

"But why?" Quinn demands, her brow knotted in the center. She needs to hear straight from Rachel's mouth what makes her forgivable _right now_, so much so that she barely gives Rachel's peculiar word choice ("taken with?") a second thought . It's a concept Quinn has trouble getting familiar with, forgiveness, though she aches for it every single day from her parents and from god.

"Because," Rachel replies, voice rising, "You're trying. Given your past, even the smallest step towards reconciliation on your part isn't lost on me. I may trust far too easily, but I've never regretted my inability to hold grudges; it's not something that I'm going to let keep me from maybe having a friend for once." With that she stares at her lap shyly, a blush of color seeping into her cheeks.

Quinn stares at Rachel for a long time, heat stinging her own face oppressively as she processes Rachel's words. "I don't deserve it," she murmurs finally. It's one of the many things she says to Rachel without thinking first.

Rachel looks up and straight into Quinn's eyes, frowning at her the way she had at Breadstix when Quinn called herself pathetic. But Rachel softens slightly. "That's how I know you're genuine. Sometimes you let your guard down and say these things that let me know how much you beat yourself up over it."

"I'm sorry, Rachel," Quinn says awkwardly, the only answer she can think to give, twisting her fingers together in front of her stomach. "And I'm sorry about what happened in the hallway. It must hurt."

Rachel smiles sadly in response. There's no doubt it must hurt, but the girl seems placated enough by Quinn's presence at least, since Quinn is terrible with words when she has to put herself out there.

"I don't care that it's you here instead of Finn," Rachel says quietly after a moment, answering Quinn's other question. Quinn looks up into her warm eyes. "I'm just glad to know that someone cares to make sure I'm okay."

"Yeah," Quinn says simply. She knows how to express herself perfectly when it comes to superficial situations or superficial emotions of anger or annoyance, but times like these paralyze her. She's known it all along, and that's why she tries to keep her distance from these situations. Emotions are almost always too much for her to handle. But here she is, still in this room and allowing this intimate moment to happen without ending it briskly - deciding Rachel is sufficiently comforted enough - and leaving for her sixth hour class.

"You know," Quinn says abruptly, breaking the silence, "I wanted you to ask me why I'm here so I could be forced to answer that question myself."

Rachel looks at Quinn for a moment, the wheels turning in her head, and then nods understandingly. "Why are you here?" she asks patiently.

Quinn runs a finger along the smooth black finish of the piano distractedly, unsure of how to start. "Because," she begins calmly, "I think we're friends now. And this is what friends do."

Rachel bites her lip, a slow smile forming there.

"Besides," Quinn continues, "I hate to see you cry. I always have."

The grin finishes breaking across Rachel's face, looking for all intents and purposes like a sunrise. She seems happy with her answer; it was all Quinn needed to say and they both know it. The brunette pops out of her seat and throws her arms around Quinn, wrapping her in a tight (and nearly suffocating) hug. Quinn pats the other girl's back tentatively. Her heart is racing.


	4. Chapter 4: The Doorknob

_**Author's Note**: Reviews, my lovelies. Low levels of feedback leave me rather unmotivated to write..._

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><p>Quinn Fabray doesn't need another reason to be kicked out again. She's known all along that she can't afford to be friends with Rachel Berry if she wants to continue to toe the line at home, and that's why she keeps the secret close, like the contentment that's just barely beginning to take seed inside of her.<p>

It's not just her mother that Quinn worries about. She treads lightly around her house because her dad's presence still lingers. He's not even gone for her. Sure, her main concern is her only remaining parent, who may have made progress in acceptance since letting Quinn return, but she knows that Judy Fabray feels her husband's unseen presence too. Every room vibrates with twenty-five years' worth of him, a connection and a symbiosis that Judy Fabray won't be able to shake even though she disowned him. She was married to him for two and a half decades. She still holds on to the things he believes: Christianity, elitism, racism, homophobia, and skepticism of their youngest daughter. Quinn often wonders if her mother took her back in purely to salvage the family's reputation.

What family?

So she's not naïve enough to think that her dad's completely gone, or that she can get away with anything now. She'll never be able to get away with any mistakes or any honesty as long as she lives in this house, and she's known it all along. That's why Rachel Berry is kept a secret. A Jewish friend raised by two gay parents is bad enough, is corrupt enough. A friend who could cause what she's in danger of causing in Quinn is much worse.

If anyone had told Quinn two months ago that she was in serious danger of developing feelings for Rachel Berry, Quinn would have laughed in that person's face. For one thing, Quinn Fabray is the model of teenage heterosexuality, and the idea of her having feelings for a member of the same sex is laughable. To the public, at least. But besides, this was _Rachel Berry _here. Quinn never allowed herself enough slack or self-acceptance to sit down long enough to figure out what her type is, but if she had to pick something she never would have thought to pick anyone like Rachel. She still wouldn't. Rachel's one of those girls who's so out there that no one ever really sees past her argyle, Mary Janes, or obsessive perfectionism far enough to notice that there's anything else - until it's too late.

Quinn supposes that's what the problem is.

She's still adamant that she has not and will not fall for Rachel, but she's sharp enough to know that it's a very real problem. Having never let herself open up to another human being like this before - though she still considers herself, emotionally, practically autistic - Quinn knows that her feelings could get intense and mixed up. She supposes that's what's to be expected when you're starved for love like she is: a turbulent attachment to anyone who shows that they care.

If that's what could end up being the case, Quinn figures that at least it's just another matter of her just being fucked up. She's preparing herself to battle any feelings she might have under that pretense, but god forbid she should realize that an attraction to Rachel could happen just as easily if Quinn were, well-adjusted. That would mean these feelings would be real, would be legitimate, and that scares her more than anything. She might be gay, but once she actually falls for a girl there's no going back.

So good thing it's not going to happen.

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><p>"You know, we've been friends for one-and-four-fifths months now and I still haven't seen your bedroom, much less your house."<p>

It's in between sixth and seventh periods and Quinn and Rachel are walking together to Spanish. Quinn hugs her books to her chest and looks up at Rachel, who is quite serious (as always) but still not without fondly glinting eyes.

"Yeah?" Quinn fires back, barely able to suppress the faint smile that tugs at her lips. "Well same to you, then, on both counts. I don't know if you've noticed, but I haven't set foot inside the Berry household yet either." If nothing, Quinn Fabray is a master of deflection.

It works like a charm. "Come over, then," Rachel replies brightly, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. "Tomorrow night, if you want."

They come to a halt in front of Mr. Schuester's classroom and Quinn taps her chin thoughtfully. "Oh gosh, Rachel, I don't know," she sighs mock-skeptically. Instead of begging animatedly, like Quinn is expecting, Rachel just bites her lip hopefully, so Quinn gives in. She can't bring herself to toy with Rachel when the other girl is so vulnerable. Quinn knows that Rachel probably hasn't had a friend over since kindergarten, if ever, so asking must not be easy.

"Of course," she exhales, grinning ruefully and touching Rachel's arm. "I'd love to come over."

"Great!" Rachel exclaims, breaking into a wide smile again and causing Quinn to hate herself a little bit for melting a little bit. "I suppose I have quite a bit of planning to do in the meantime, then."

Quinn rolls her eyes as she reaches for the doorknob and pulls the door open. "All you have to do is pick out the movie. I've got takeout covered, so that ought to cut your planning time by at least an hour."

She holds the door for Rachel and the brunette ducks under Quinn's arm, remaining silent. The small smile curling up the corners of Rachel's lips doesn't go unnoticed.

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><p>Quinn finds she has too much time on her hands these days to keep from thinking. It wasn't something she had a problem with last year, when she was up to her chin in activities and facades. And that was good. Thinking was something she rarely did, nor wanted to do, when she was in her extreme-repression-and-conversion-tactics stage, last year when she was so dedicated she would refuse to even smile at Rachel Berry. She thought it was the best way to fix herself, to swear off thinking altogether, but look where that got her. Knocked up and no better off heterosexually than before.<p>

In fact, she was drunk enough when Puck was climbing on top of her to close her eyes and let his hands belong to her counselor from cheer camp last summer.

Now that she's changed, Quinn does more thinking. Reluctantly. Unintentionally. It's not something she wants, this added reflection time where she rehashes that teenage nightmare - losing her home again - or worse, thoughts about Rachel. She knows you're not supposed to think about your friends so much, but she can't help it, as much as she wishes she could. Rachel just makes her so damn happy. Quinn never realized just how desperately lonely she'd been for so long, surrounded by so many superficial "friends" who would just as soon stab her in the back for a higher spot on the pyramid, until she started actually talking to someone real.

No matter what they talk about, though, it never goes too far or too deep. They're not ready. Or rather, Quinn's not ready, not ready to talk Finn or Beth or insecurity or parents or being gay. But she knows Rachel's ready to listen, always will be ready and willing to listen, and even though Quinn may never be ready to talk about any of those things, least of all the last one, it means a lot to know she can.

She's never going to come out to Rachel, though. She just can't. She can't come out to anyone - _physically _can't - and she's known it all along. She's known it all along, and that's why she keeps it close, like the hateful and terrified goosebumps that caress her body when she ever even thinks about anyone knowing. Even Rachel. _Especially _Rachel.

Why does she worry the most about Rachel finding out when Quinn knows for a fact that Rachel - with her gay dads and nonjudgmental eyes - would be the most supportive?


	5. Chapter 5: The Well

_**Author's Note**: "Ask not how many reviews this story can leave for you, but how many reviews you can leave for this story." -John F. Kennedy_  
><em>I own nothing.<em> 

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><p>Quinn Fabray doesn't need another reason for the members of the Glee Club to start talking, the way they always do when there's a shift in the norm. The norm is supposed to be Rachel in her place and Quinn in hers, an unspoken rule of division by high school hierarchy and a bloody history between them. Now that that structure has been broken down - broken down by a subtle but noticeable quilt of smiles and mixed company - they're going to talk. They're going to raise their eyebrows dubiously, distrustful of Quinn's motives but not quite fond enough of Rachel to feel protective and be concerned, and they're going to trade theories. And they're going to stare a little bit. If there's anything Quinn can't stand, it's the stares and whispers. It just brings her back to last year, when kids were laughing at her fall from grace behind her back, when she was in a hot enough hell for that without imagining it ten times worse (the teenage nightmare) with thoughts of them calling her a dyke instead of the Virgin Mary. So when the Glee Clubbers start exchanging glances amongst themselves at the improbability of this friendship, Quinn is jolted back into a déjà vu that leaves her struggling for air sometimes.<p>

Gazes are like walls. Sometimes they make her feel like she's living that movie scene where the character is trapped in a coffin buried six feet underground.

Not that she would ever let it show. The old, immortal Quinn Fabray that still lives inside has her just tilt her chin haughtily and figure she'll make befriending a social outcast the new cool thing to do or something.

"Quinn."

She's yanked out of her self-reflective reverie, one involving staring into her open locker for a few minutes straight, by a voice to her right. Surprisingly enough, it's Kurt, standing impassively next to her with his hands on his hips.

"What?" Quinn responds distractedly. Though they've been in Glee Club together for a while and had a conversation or two, Kurt has never really approached her before.

"Could I have a word with you, please?" he says casually, eyes wandering down her frame. His face is totally impassive.

"…Yeah," Quinn says slowly, tearing herself away from her locker skeptically and shutting it. Kurt has on his business face, with his nose upturned and eyes sweeping about like they're too aloof to make eye contact. It's almost cute - no, it definitely is, on him, and Quinn would find it so if not for her mixed feelings of unease and slight annoyance. She flashes back to her confrontation with Finn a few weeks ago. They still haven't spoken since.

"It's about Rachel," Kurt begins matter-of-factly.

"Figures," Quinn replies, folding her arms across her chest. "Go ahead, I'm listening." She doesn't want to make this easy for him. She's pretty sick of everyone feeling the need to assess and question her relationship with Rachel.

"I'm sure you're quite aware of how strange your budding friendship appears to the rest of the school. The two of you are an unlikely pair, especially given your past together." He pauses and raises an eyebrow, looking away dubiously before returning his gaze to Quinn's. "Some of us suspect foul play."

"Really," Quinn deadpans. If this were anyone else (but mainly Finn) she would begin to feel the familiar heat of hostility slowly rising from her toes to her throat, but she knows that Kurt only asks because he's a gossip. Her wrath bristles in her arsenal, so ready to be used if needed, but she won't be using it. It's only Kurt.

"Yes," he replies firmly. "It's so out of nowhere it seems unnatural. Everyone knows you're a good liar, and everyone knows torturing Rachel isn't beyond you. You've always hated her."

"I never hated her," Quinn interjects automatically (_I hated myself_), but Kurt ignores her. He probably didn't hear.

"It just makes the most sense, you know? I'm not accusing you of anything, but I really would like to hear straight from the horse's mouth what game you're playing with that poor girl."

Quinn's teeth are immediately set on edge. She feels her eyes narrow, that protective anger for Rachel she'd felt during her confrontation with Finn resurfacing. "Don't even pretend like you give a shit about her," she snarls, taking a step closer to Kurt.

"Listen," he says quickly, raising a hand, and Quinn is shocked to see only haste flash across his eyes, rather than anything resembling fear. "I never said that you pulling some cruel prank was the only option. I figure something's up, but it could be anything. That's why I'm here asking you instead of just sitting back and waiting for you to yank the rug out from under Rachel."

Quinn heaves a sigh. "What are your other theories?" she asks woodenly.

"Mercedes thinks you've made Rachel your indentured servant," he replies thoughtfully. "But I have this theory that Rachel's following you around because she has a hopeless crush on you."

"What?" Quinn blurts, letting out a peal of disbelieving laughter. Her ears start ringing.

"Yeah, well, I figured it fits perfectly with why she's magically forgiven you after putting up with all your bullying over the past few years, and why she always seems over the moon to be near you in favor of her perfectly wonderful boyfriend. Plus, you're hot, and she's just weird enough to be a closet bisexual _and _masochist."

Quinn just stares at him, eyes narrowing again.

"It doesn't explain your behavior, though," Kurt continues. "That's why I had to come talk to you, because I knew before I even asked Rachel if she was in love with you that it wouldn't get me anywhere." He pauses, looking Quinn up and down while nodding to himself. "You're been pretty offended with me and my allegations throughout this entire interchange. I figure that's a good enough indication that you really are friends with her."

Before Quinn can respond (her brain is having terrible success at processing this), Kurt flashes a small, slightly defeated smile and walks away down the hallway.

Quinn just stands there, watching his retreating figure. There are two things she wants to yell out, one of them being "What did she say?" and the other being "You're not alone."

She doesn't need another reason to make things with Rachel awkward, but even though Quinn avoids possibly uncomfortable subject matter like the plague, things with Rachel _have _gotten better and they're taking small steps towards talking about deeper stuff. Surprised as she is to say it (or just think it), this friendship is feeling a little more real every day.

Quinn also wants to broach the Kurt subject with Rachel partly because there's a small piece of her that's indescribably curious about his theory. She can't begin to explain why.

"Has Kurt cornered you in the hallway lately with a set of twenty questions?"

Rachel quickly looks up at Quinn from a stack of sheet music, her eyes then darting up a few rows to Kurt, who is deep in conversation with Mercedes. Quinn can't help but feel a sudden flash of unrecognizable déjà vu.

"What do you mean?" Rachel asks, blinking rapidly and inhaling heavily. The question has put her on defense mode, Quinn can tell instantly. Maybe the exchange Kurt mentioned didn't go so well.

So Quinn shrugs, trying to keep it low key. In the back of her mind she's telling herself to do whatever it takes to carefully wheedle information from Rachel, who can be surprisingly tight-lipped when she wants to be despite her normally _loose _lips.

"He grilled me today about what's going on between us. Did he get you too?"

Rachel's eyes drift up to the ceiling and she sighs in exasperation at the memory. "Yes. Something like that."

"Figures," Quinn mutters. "What did he say?"

Rachel frowns. "Does it matter?" she responds hastily. "Probably the same sort of nonsensical accusations he threw at you."

There's a pause where Quinn blinks. "Well," she says quietly after a moment, "I doubt anyone's accusing you of cruelty or deception. That's all me so far."

She looks down at her lap but she can see Rachel's face fall out of the corner of her eye. Quinn doesn't mean to throw a pity party, but this is really getting to her. Does everyone really have that little faith in her character? Is she really that awful of a person?

Quinn feels a soft touch on her forearm and looks up to see Rachel tentatively extending her hand, her eyes full of concern.

"Quinn, I'm sorry," she murmurs, biting her lip.

"Don't worry about it," Quinn replies, trying to play it cool (but trembling slightly from the electric touch of Rachel's hand just on her sleeve).

"I do," Rachel protests gently, and the depth of the concern Quinn sees painting her face elicits another minor earthquake of gratitude in her bones. This girl… she really does care about Quinn. She actually gives a shit about Quinn's feelings. Finn used to care too, way back when, but this feeling hasn't been familiar for months, ever since he learned the truth - or half of it, at least. Now, this time around with Rachel, it's something different, something foreign that Quinn just can't put her finger on. It's like this feeling is deeper, like a well, and Quinn feels ripples being made on her surface.

"Listen," Rachel continues, "They don't know you."

"And you do?" Quinn replies, her face controlled - blank and listless. In the back of her mind she's convincing herself it's too good to be true.

Rachel looks down for a moment and then back up to Quinn, her gaze slightly flustered and just the slightest bit vulnerable. "I'd like to," she says quietly. "I'm trying to."

Quinn can't meet Rachel's eyes. For some reason she can't even begin to explain, her heart is pounding. In the back of her mind she needs to convince herself that this is too good to be true.

Finally, Quinn tears her gaze from the tiles of the chorus room floor up to Rachel. Rachel offers a tentative smile, one that Quinn slowly, ever so shakily, mirrors. As Mr. Schue begins to write on the whiteboard and they turn back to the front, Quinn realizes where that déjà vu from earlier is from. It came from the time when Quinn asked Rachel how her dads would react if she was gay. The curtness, the flaring nostrils, even the sheet music - it was all the same. Some similar nerve was touched to put Rachel on edge.

Quinn tilts her head thoughtfully, unable to really make sense of it. Rachel on defense mode from the idea of her being gay. Rachel on defense mode from the topic of an alleged crush on Quinn. It can't be that she's uncomfortable with homosexuality, not with dads like hers. She's not Quinn, after all, having been raised by conservative Christians. Quinn goes back to her theory that Rachel must get shit about being queer a lot, because of her dads, and the subject is sensitive. But all Quinn knows for sure right now is a stirring in her gut, a lazy but insistent whirlpool of curiosity. And, she thinks, Rachel may have loose lips but she is far more deft at deflection than Quinn gave her credit for.


	6. Chapter 6: The Dream

_**Author's Note:** "A wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves lots of reviews before she is left." -Marilyn Monroe_

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><p>Sometimes Quinn feels like she has convinced herself that misery will never change. What misery? What is it? Where is it? No one could look at her and her perfect life and find that answer, and neither can she. The source is elusive and intangible, but Quinn knows it's there. She wouldn't be the way she is if it wasn't.<p>

But what is misery? It was always something like an epiphany: a realization that nothing she did was fulfilling, nothing was good or made her happy. Realization that her lips hardly knew how to smile was like a slow burn, a slow bang, but she still can't figure out if she knew it all along. All she knows is that there's no real love in her life, and that's a much harder misery to change than just having a group of fake friends.

She thinks about this with the free time she's allowed herself. She can't find love at home, and even if she can it's that transparently conditional love that will disappear once she steps out of line - it's happened before. She certainly can't find it with "friends", the Cheerios, who don't even pretend to really care about her. She never had it with Puck or Finn; she never loved them, she couldn't even though she wanted to, not like that, she lied to them nearly as badly as she lied to herself. No, she couldn't even salvage any love from god; she has herself convinced that he doesn't want her for who she is either.

This is one of the reasons why she never cared to stop and think. With thoughts like these circling around, who would want to?

But just a little more thought and Quinn remembers the change from misery, the unexpected reliefs that she sometimes forgets about. There's Glee Club. It's a small joy, and a stupid choir at school shouldn't logically make someone happy to be alive, even a little, but it does for Quinn the way she knows it does for the other members. She likes actually being cared about. She may be revered in this school, but she's rarely cared about for who she is, and she's known that all along. The Glee kids, however, take care of their own, and even though they don't really know Quinn (does she even know herself?) they do the same for her.

There's Rachel too, the other relief that has become more than unexpected. It bothers Quinn more than it should that Rachel makes her so happy; she feels like the sensation shouldn't be so strong right now. They haven't been friends for long enough, as though more time has to pass like this for her happiness to be legitimate. Because it's silly, Quinn thinks, to completely latch on to someone so quickly and consider them as valuable as she does so quickly. It's clingy. It's needy. God forbid that Quinn Fabray is either of those things. Just considering it makes her skin crawl.

But at the same time Rachel just makes her feel so damn _good_. It's something that Quinn can't ignore no matter how much the idea of it makes her heart clench with unfounded worry. No one has smiled at her like that in so long, not since Finn, and even when she was with Finn it was just for popularity's sake. Popularity is the _last _thing Rachel could help Quinn with, but deep down Quinn quit caring about that months ago. Right now she's exploring what it means to make herself happy, what it is that causes that misery to fade out to nothing.

Right now it really feels like Rachel. 

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><p>Quinn loves the feel of Rachel's fingers running through her hair, maybe more than anything in the world. It's soft and soothing, like being pet, but at the same time it causes miniscule vibrations to tread over her body. Quinn closes her eyes for a second, letting the tremors slide down her frame, and breathes deeply. Rachel's nails gently graze her scalp absently. Quinn could fall asleep right now, lying right here in Rachel's lap.<p>

"You getting sleepy?" Rachel murmurs. Quinn opens her eyes to see Rachel smiling fondly down at her, her hair tumbling down as a wavy brown curtain.

"Little bit," Quinn responds contentedly, still surprised by how at ease she feels this _dangerously, _physically close to another girl - especially Rachel. Lying there on Rachel's couch in front of the TV, her head on the other girl's lap, it's such an intimate proximity, but it's so relaxing. Despite Quinn's pounding heart, and the dry thickness of her tongue in her mouth.

They inhale and exhale a few times, almost completely in sync together. As the glow from the TV screen paints her face, Quinn remembers that she doesn't actually know how she got here, in Rachel's living room, or remember how she ended up with her head in the other girl's lap. The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that there is no logical way for her to have ended up at this point; Quinn's relentless insecurity and standoffishness would have (should have) made this even happening impossible, even though right now, in this moment, she loves the sensation more than she can possibly internalize. Still, she's suddenly acutely aware of the pressure of her head resting on Rachel's thighs, of the slight movement of Rachel's stomach as she breathes in and out, and of just _how _close her face is to Rachel's center.

The heat from this positioning flares in, as tangible as bathwater, but Quinn doesn't even panic. She just remains relaxed, allowing herself to feel something for once. And it feels… _nice_. Without the ever-present corset of anxiety squeezing the oxygen from her lungs, and with Rachel in an uncharacteristic state of serene silence, Quinn finds that this actually feels good. …But it's not that she only likes Rachel when she's quiet or anything. She likes Rachel's chattiness. It's endearing, in some way. It's cute.

Rachel smiles warmly at the end of some furniture commercial and looks down at Quinn distractedly, and as Quinn melts a little bit that thought reverberates in her head like the metallic echoes of an anvil. _It's cute._

It's then that she wakes up.

Quinn brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and zips up her uniform with shaking fingers, but by the time she gets to school the shakes have quit. It was just a dream after all, and like all dreams this one becomes hazy and flickers within a half hour. She stands at her locker before first period, resolutely pulling out books and willing the dream to fade more quickly. It's not hazy enough yet. It has to be nothing but a mute wash of vague something and TV-lit _something _before she can face Rachel today. She can look Rachel in the eye, sure, like nothing happened (because nothing _did _happen anyway); she's been able to do so for years now. Her gaze was always unabashed even when she was torturing Rachel or lying to Finn or hiding from her parents, and all the while hating herself for all of it. The problem is living with herself, because the more she thinks about this dream the more it's the absolute _worst_.

So she doesn't think about it. At least she tries not to as best she can, while she's not getting that vague feeling that it was far from the worst.

"You'll never guess what movie I rented."

Quinn barely even looks at Rachel, glancing instead over the brunette's shoulder distractedly. "You're probably right."

"I'll give you a hint, though."

"If your hint is that there's _singing _in it, I'll probably-"

"Well okay, there _is_, but that's not what I was going to say."

Quinn looks over at Finn. He's been slowly moving further and further away from Rachel during Glee Club, ever since that fight he and Quinn had in the hallway over a month ago, and by today's practice he's sitting all the way on the other side of the room. Right now he's looking over at Quinn and Rachel, his eyes narrowed, and as he catches Quinn staring her head quickly snaps back to the front.

"Quinn, did you hear me? I said it's of the _iconic leading woman _genre."

"Why don't you just let it be a surprise," Quinn snaps just a bit too impatiently, turning to face Rachel.

Rachel, in turn, takes it in stride surprisingly well. Instead of biting her lip or looking wounded, she just sighs. "Quinn, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Quinn exhales, knowing the lie is completely transparent before she even breathes it out. "I'm just stressed," she goes on. "I didn't get much sleep last night." But that's not the problem at all, she actually got too much sleep for her own liking.

"Do you want to skip tonight?" This time Rachel does bite her lip, though the insecurity only just barely peeks through the concern. "Because I'd totally understand. You really do need to be getting more rest, you seem so fatigued all the time lately and-"

"No, Rachel." Quinn cuts her off firmly. She stares intently into Rachel's eyes for a second, searching for her full attention, and then softens. "I'll still come. Don't worry about it, I've got the whole weekend to catch up on my sleep."

Rachel's worried expression dissolves into a relieved smile. "Good."

"Besides, how late are you planning on keeping me up anyway, Ms. Berry?"

She doesn't _really _realize what she'd said (or that she'd arched an eyebrow in that quietly challenging Quinn Fabray way) until the other girl replies.

"As long as it takes," Rachel purrs in an extremely seductive tone of voice, her chin tucked into her chest and her eyes smoldering. All the color drains out of Quinn's face as her jaw falls open and she has barely enough time to squeak before Rachel bursts out giggling.

Quinn knows Rachel was just goofing around, but it caught her off guard. _Severely. _What Rachel did was put something in Quinn's head, something possibly more dangerous than anything that's ever been there. It's an idea. A daydream. A picture of being kept late at Rachel's house, of those eyes and that voice resurfacing, of being touched, of being…

Maybe Quinn did bring this on herself. She left herself wide open with that thoughtless remark she made, and she had made it suggestive - hadn't she - with her stupid autonomous eyebrow and tone of voice. But she's sick of these images, of these dreams. It's getting out of control.

"…The look on your face," Rachel says gleefully, still caught in a fit of the giggles. Quinn just rolls her eyes and holds back a smile, willing the churning inside to calm down.

By later on, it does. Quinn sighs in relief for the rest of the day, glad to be reduced to normal thoughts. She's still sighing as she stands at the sinks in the girls' room after last period, touching up her makeup before glee club. With a flush and a bang (white sneaker kicking open a metal door?) Santana bursts carelessly out of a stall behind Quinn.

She stands silently washing her hands for a few seconds before glancing sidelong at Quinn. Quinn can just imagine the catty slant of the other girl's eyes without having to see any more than the blurry peripheral view.

"You going to Puckerman's party tonight?" the brunette says lightly.

Quinn had heard about it, but she was never very interested. Still, the popular kids went to these parties on their Friday nights. It's what Quinn always did. She probably would have decided on going anyway if Rachel hadn't invited her over. "I have plans," Quinn replies briskly, busying herself with the cap to her mascara.

Santana rolls her eyes, her lip curling into a cynical grin. "Going to go spend your Friday night making out with Berry?"

It's an innocent and meaningless enough barb, coming from Santana, and Quinn has definitely heard more offensive and far-fetched from her, but still she feels a heat-seeking missile fast approaching. A violent blush at the idea is just on the verge of exploding under her skin, but the hot rush of familiar hostility is also dangerously close.

"Yeah," Quinn says levelly, her jaw tight, "of course. 'Cause I'm a lesbian now." The sarcasm is so heavy and ripe it's almost physically flavorful, like a swollen peach hanging from a branch.

Santana cocks her head and narrows her eyes. "Wouldn't surprise me after such a huge fuck-up last year. She may have man hands but she can't knock you up, at least, can she?"

"You would know," Quinn retorts patronizingly, "You're the expert on that."

Santana's expression sours. "Clever, mom jeans." A faint reddish tinge still colors her cheeks. Quinn knows she's touchy about her relationship with Brittany. It's one of the only weaknesses Santana has. Quinn has known about it for a long time now, but though she and Santana are bitter rivals by now, Quinn's not about to use this secret to get ahead. Not only would that be the worst of hypocritical offenses, but Quinn's just not like that. She can be a mean girl, to the point of borderline cruelty sometimes, but she's not heartless.

"But yeah," Quinn sighs, trying to close the subject. "Sorry, not gonna make it."

"Yeah, gathered that," Santana deadpans dismissively, walking away to grab a few paper towels. After a few seconds she tosses the crumpled fistful of brown paper into the garbage can and looks over her shoulder. "You really oughtta go, though. Your reputation might go straight to shit soon if you decide to be a hermit with Berry. Come tonight. Bring her with."

Santana leaves and after a few seconds so does Quinn, off to Glee Club practice.


	7. Chapter 7: The Mirror

**Author's Note:** _Sorry for going so long without an update... finals week, yknow. review review review review review_

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><p>Quinn stands on Rachel's stoop a few hours later, hair down and an outfit that's <em>not <em>polyester for once hugging her body (a bit more loosely; she can breathe better). The breathing is a little more restricted though, for a reason she can't quite pin down, so it's equal to how it would be if she were in her Cheerios uniform anyway even though right now it's just jeans. She supposes she's nervous to go in Rachel's house, nervous to be a guest and nervous to meet Rachel's dads, if they're actually home. Just nervous in general. The steam from the Thai takeout suspended in a plastic bag from her fingers makes her legs sweat. She hopes she ordered the right thing, something vegan enough, and for that she's nervous too. It's ridiculous, is what it is. She's Quinn Fabray, sovereign of a vicious high school hierarchy, and that's got to make her made of fucking _steel_. She always thought she was. Now she's jittery like a tween boy with acne picking up a girl he hardly knows for some dance, just because she's about to enter Rachel Berry's house.

The door swings open, and though the amount of time Quinn was standing there waiting had seemed like a mini-eternity because she was so self-conscious, it was really pretty fast. Quinn opens her mouth to make an automatic remark about how creepy it was that Rachel answered the door in about two and a half seconds flat, but the words die in her mouth immediately.

The Rachel Berry standing before Quinn is gorgeous. That's the first thing that hits her, in its simplistic entirety; just the words _Rachel Berry _and _gorgeous_. But Quinn needs to convince herself she's only thinking that because she's so shocked. She's never seen Rachel like this, not even when they went on that not-date at Breadstix and she wore some makeup and that pretty green dress. All traces of argyle and khaki are gone. Instead, she's wearing a sleek black dress, one that exposes a tantalizing but not trashy amount of smooth skin above and below the hemlines. Her hair is carefully tousled, her eyes are smoky, and her lips are glossy. _Gorgeous_.

"Rachel, uh…" Quinn says thickly. "What-"

"Quinn, come in," Rachel says hurriedly, ushering Quinn inside and herding her into the kitchen while she talks. "I'm glad you're here. I was going to call you earlier to ask for your help in finding something to wear, but then Kurt stayed back after he and Finn were here and I really didn't want to bother you, so-"

"Wait, Rachel," Quinn interrupts, turning to face Rachel and cutting off the other girl's nervous ramble, "Start over. What's going on? Is there a change of plans?"

Rachel sighs forcibly and her eyes dart to the floor. "Finn was giving Kurt a ride to his dad's garage and they stopped by here. Finn asked me to go with him to a party at Puck's tonight, and I _swear _I insisted upon keeping my plans with you, but he was just so persistent I had to give in. He guilted me about-"

She stops mid-sentence and looks around at the appliances imploringly, as though searching for inspiration from the blender or the microwave. "I just haven't been giving him the copious amount of attention lately that he feels he deserves from me," she admits quickly, as though trying to get the statement over with as soon as possible.

"I get it," Quinn sighs, nodding to put Rachel out of the misery of explaining her childish boyfriend. "I used to date him, remember?"

Rachel blinks quickly at that, startled by the memory, it would seem. Quinn is surprised that Rachel could have forgotten this - even after all this time replacing it with change of heart and friendship - since all of last year had been a battle over Finn, after all.

"Yes, of course," Rachel says, brow furrowed, as though the thought of Quinn and Finn together - even just in the past - is unsettling. "If anyone would understand, it would be you."

"Unfortunately," Quinn sighs, not quite partial to thinking about having dated Finn, nor about his rough hands and clumsy lips. She looks around Rachel's kitchen, which is more normal than she'd like to admit having imagined all these years, and ends up just hoisting her bag of Thai takeout onto the counter. She can't help the feeling of slight annoyance that reverberates sluggishly in the dense space of her head: annoyance with Finn, mainly, that he ruined her plans of a night in with Rachel, but annoyance that altogether she can't really explain.

As Rachel scrambles - effortlessly - to slide a place mat under the steaming plastic bag, Quinn crosses her arms. "I'd take off my jacket but I should probably just head back home anyway."

Rachel's eyes widen. "Quinn, I'm so sorry." She comes around the counter, eyes round and shining with worry. "I know it was terrible of me to break our plans, but that doesn't mean you have to go. I wanted you to come-"

Quinn cuts her off with a wave of her hand. "I need to go back home to _change_, Rachel." Against her will, the corner of her mouth quirks up in a small smile. "I can't wear this out while you're looking like a total knockout. How's that fair?" And she knows it would make her something of a sadist to admit it, but she finds Rachel terrified at offending her kind of endearing.

Rachel pauses for a second, processing, and then smiles sheepishly. "Oh," she chuckles, embarrassed and flushing slightly pink. She then toys with the hem of her dress, biting her lip. "You really think I'm a knockout?"

"Of course," Quinn admits, a slow and genuine smile spreading across her lips. Before she can stop herself, she winks at Rachel.

This time Rachel goes full-on crimson. "Thanks, Quinn," she murmurs, a shy grin lighting up her already-glowing face. Noting that Rachel is rendered speechless for once, Quinn realizes that Rachel is rarely made to feel pretty by anyone around her. She should know, after having spent so many years putting her down and calling her names meant to make her feel ugly. Her heart goes out to the other girl.

"Don't mention it," she replies, realizing that what she wants in this friendship, if nothing else, is to make Rachel feel pretty every day.

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><p>"…Delicious," Rachel murmurs disjointedly, talking to herself absently around a delicately bobbing mouthful.<p>

"Glad you like it," Quinn replies, tongue curling around her canine in concentration as she focuses on her mascara. She stands in front of the mirror in her room, applying the finishing touches to her ensemble, with her back turned to Rachel; the other girl perches politely on the edge of Quinn's bed, eating takeout from floral-patterned china on a TV-tray.

They'd decided to trek to Quinn's house together so Quinn could change clothes and get ready; it was easier just to stick together than to split up and meet up later. Besides, as it's a Friday night, Judy Fabray is out, and will be for the rest of the night, out at bridge club or book group or whatever it is tonight. Quinn has lost track. It doesn't really matter anymore; Judy Fabray has a number of things - activities and distractions - she does to get out of the house, exactly as Quinn has. Quinn tells herself she doesn't mind; she doesn't need another reason for things with her mother to be awkward, and in the context of tonight, she's gone and so it's okay for Rachel to be here and that's all that really matters right now. Quinn's not going to get into her parental abandonment issues, or whatever they are, right now.

She spins around to face Rachel and squashes that train of thought, placing her hands on her hips. "How do I look?" she asks.

Rachel's face lights up as her eyes travel up and down, taking in Quinn's hair, light cardigan, lingering on her skin-tight leggings, her flats. "You look great."

As Rachel gazes at Quinn's legs, Quinn wonders what the other girl sees. She wonders at the cast of Rachel's eyes and imagines, hypothetically, wildly, that she sees desire there. "We look good together," Quinn says idly, smiling good-naturedly, but her voice comes out husky all the same. She hates herself for this, for blurting out these stupid things and for pretending like Rachel's checking out her legs or something. For winking before. For ever complimenting Rachel at all. It was a mistake to say it, and it was a mistake to even feel it. Finding Rachel beautiful is dangerous territory, and so is even playfully coming close to flirting out of jest.

All this flashes across Quinn's eyes in a matter of seconds. She bites off the silence, expressionless as she can manage, and abruptly turns back to the mirror. "_Man hands_," she mouths silently to her reflection, the lips she sees there barely moving. She says the words like they're a mantra that can protect her. She doesn't know why she says it. Rachel, behind her, notices nothing of Quinn's strange silence and spooked expression, and if she does, she doesn't show it. She just smiles shyly at Quinn's last audible statement, beaming at her lap.

"Yes, we certainly do."

Quinn's insides are yearning to blame Rachel for any of this, wanting the other girl to stop being shy at these types of statements. This would be so much easier if Rachel would laugh off these idiotic things Quinn says. It would be easier if she would just roll her eyes. Anything remotely close to encouragement is the last thing Quinn needs. They need to act like they're just friends. It's all they are, it's all that they ever could be. Rachel's straight, and besides, if Quinn falls for Rachel it means there's really no hope for her ever being straight either. If Quinn falls for Rachel, it's over. It's the end, it's the cement that means yeah, Quinn really is queer. And it's the end because it'll be hopeless and it will never end well. If Quinn falls for Rachel, where will that get her? Will Rachel dump the Golden Boy she'd been obsessively chasing for nearly a year, just to hop the Lesbo Love Train with Quinn? The likelihood is laughable.

If there's anything Quinn's learned from living in Lima for all these years, it's that being gay means never being with the one you want. It can't even work for Brittany and Santana, who even (secretly) reciprocate their desire for one another. It's this town, this school, this four-season Midwestern climate. The two cheerleaders are in _love _with each other, and still they'll never hold hands in this oppressive hole of a town. If it's impracticable for them, it's nothing short of impossible for Quinn to be with a straight girl, especially if she's someone Quinn actually _wants_. She knows, numbly and heavily at the base of her skull, that she'll never be with anyone she wants. She's known it all along, and that's why she keeps the knowledge close, like some unshakeable limp.

And still, through thinking all this, Quinn maintains that she isn't falling for Rachel. God would be laughing at -

"That's the doorbell," Rachel exclaims, springing up with a characteristic jack-in-the-box energy. "Finn's here."

Quinn nods noncommittally, smoothing out her clothes needlessly in front of the mirror once again. She hadn't heard the bell, but then again she wasn't really listening. She was lost pretty deep in thought.

Rachel pauses just before flitting through the doorway, her hand resting on its frame. "Is everything okay?" she asks, brow slightly furrowed as she takes in Quinn's subdued silence.

"Yeah," Quinn lies, only half as convincing as usual. "Just tired, you know." She wonders how many times this excuse is going to fly. She knows it's the default lie for "I don't want to admit anything's wrong", but she hopes Rachel is behind enough on social customs to _not _know. After all, Rachel had been shocked to hear that none of the girls that sat out swimming laps in gym class were actually really on their period.

But…

"Are you sure?" Rachel asks hesitantly, visibly torn between waiting in the room and going down to get the door. She may be a little clueless sometimes, but the girl isn't blind. She knows something must be wrong. Besides, she cares enough to persist (and has since that first time at Breadstix), and that has to count for _something_ as friends.

"I just…" Quinn begins, preparing to at least admit that she's not feeling herself, the most vague and basic of admissions that she could start with while still being honest. Maybe she would even say that But then the doorbell rings again and Rachel looks out the door for a split second, her concentration broken, and every shred of Quinn's resolve is lost, spooked away.

"I have a lot on my mind," she finishes brusquely, still unable to hide the hint of disappointment from her voice or her posture.

"Oh." Rachel frowns sympathetically. She hesitates for a moment, then gazes out the door and down the stairs, as though she could see Finn and see if he's all right _being made to wait _all of twenty seconds.

"You should go let Finn in," Quinn says woodenly, and just like that Rachel's out the door. Quinn sighs, alone in her bedroom with her thoughts, and realizes that she really does not want to go to this party tonight. The only reason she's really going, she figures, is to look after Rachel, who's never been to a party with alcohol before. Quinn knows that she wouldn't feel right leaving Rachel with Finn; for some reason in her mind the other girl's boyfriend is incompetent in taking care of her. But then again Quinn can probably chalk this up to that fierce, inexplicable protectiveness she feels for Rachel Berry lately, the same surge she'd felt during her confrontations with Finn and Kurt, respectively.

Because friends feel that for one another. Right.

Quinn descends the stairs thirty seconds later to join Rachel and Finn. She finds them in the kitchen, chatting about McKinley's last football game - or rather, Finn talks and Rachel listens while trying to keep her eyes from glazing over.

"Hi Finn," Quinn says politely, intent on make this as pain-free as she can. She doesn't need another reason for tonight to suck, without a static of animosity hovering between her and Finn.

But Finn just looks up distractedly, irritation clouding his dull brown eyes. "Hey," he grunts. His fake, strained smile just looks like a grimace. It's like he's not even trying.

Quinn clenches her teeth, annoyed with Finn's immaturity but determined not to start anything, for Rachel's sake. "You guys ready to go?"

Rachel nods energetically, visibly nervous. Still, she seems excited all the same. Quinn wonders what Rachel is expecting from this party, if she even knows what to expect. If she's terrified of drinking or of mixing in with the popular crowd. Quinn notices, curiously enough, that this will be Rachel's first "popular kids event" since she's started dating Finn, and it's been months now. It occurs to her that he must be ashamed of his girlfriend, and she feels bitterly disgusted with him, but at the same time Quinn feels happy that now that she's friends with Rachel she can be a part of the other girl's inclusion in high school privilege.

"Now, there's a forecast for light rain tonight," Rachel announces, moving towards the coat rack where she'd hung up her jacket. "Does everyone have appropriate outerwear?"

"The party's inside, Rach," Finn responds, turning his head around in confusion.

"Yeah, I wouldn't worry about it," Quinn chimes in. "The only time we'll be outside is when we walk from Finn's Jeep to Puck's front door. That's like thirty feet."

"We might have to park down the block, though," Finn mutters, deep in thought about this.

"Better safe than sorry," Rachel chirps, twisting her shoulders to maneuver into the arms of her garish canary yellow windbreaker. Quinn can't help but chuckle to herself at the absurdity of the jacket and how oddly it juxtaposes with Rachel's sleek black dress. But while the dress looks amazing, it's not characteristic of what Rachel Berry usually wears, and the yellow jacket is just _her_. Quinn bites the smile that spreads across her lips; so much about Rachel that others would pick on, and things that Quinn used to target herself, are just plain endearing to her now. She likes Rachel's individuality. She supposes she wishes she could be herself as unapologetically as Rachel does, though deep down she knows that's only part of the appeal.

"I'll go grab a coat," Quinn concedes, turning to go back up the stairs.


	8. Chapter 8: The Fireplace

_**Author's Note:** So the party chapter was hella long so I chopped it in half. So don't worry, there's much more. Mostly all written already, too, but I figured I'd split it in half so I could update more quickly. Not like you guys deserve it, though... last chapter's reviews were amazing, as always, but the amount was dismal. Shame, shame. You know, if you're adding to favorites and alerts, you could review. Just sayin'. _  
><em>Okay, done being horrible. I'm sorry. I really am grateful for each and every review. Love you guys. :))<em>

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><p>Quinn doesn't need another reason to act strangely around Rachel, and she's known it all along, so that's why she tries not to drink much. She knows how dangerous alcohol can be, from experience, and while sleeping with Puck was a scary enough slip-up, letting her guard down around Rachel would be much worse. The things her drunken mind could think that it's okay to say, or, heaven forbid, <em>do<em>… It doesn't even bear thinking about. Quinn's hand curls around her blue plastic cup, crunching it just slightly, as she shudders. This situation has the potential to be disastrous, more than duet rehearsals, more than Breadstix. Quinn sways a bit, half in time to the steady swell of music and half because of her last two drinks, and still automatically scans the crowd of McKinleyans for Rachel. It's difficult, though; everyone is moving too fast for her and the heavy bassline coming from Mrs. Puckerman's Bose sound system in the corner of the room is making it hard for her to concentrate. She picks out Brittany somewhere in the crowd, arms draped loosely around a shorter boy's shoulders and head thrown back laughing at something he said, but Rachel… Quinn inwardly curses herself for drinking even this much already; and she _told _Puck to make the vodka and orange juice ratio one to ten at the most, but then again this was Puck-

"'Sup, MILF?"

Quinn barely has time to twist her head to her right before she feels a warm arm slide around her shoulder. Speak of the devil. Puck grins down at her, harmless enough but not _quite _lovable, and Quinn tries to subtly extricate herself from his loose embrace. If Rachel were to look over and see her… but no, that has nothing to do with it.

"Hi, Puck," she says, voicing a mixture of politeness and exasperation, as she edges away subtly and lets his arm drop to his side.

"Chillax, baby mama," he says genuinely, raising a hand defensively. "I'm not here to sow my seed again, I'm just checking up on you. See if you're having a good time."

"Thanks."

He leans in slightly, indicating the rest of the party with an upwards nod of his head. "Who are you here with?"

"Um…" She chooses to ignore the possible implications of his words. "Rachel…" She trails off because she has the intention of adding Finn's name, going with the list of who she literally came here with, but she realizes that that's probably not what Puck meant.

He just nods thoughtfully, though, chewing on the inside of his mouth instead of raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Yeah, you guys are friends now, huh? Never would have seen that one coming. My fertile friend and my Semitic sister, chumming around and-"

"Why do you always refer to her as a Jew?" Quinn interrupts, a red hot annoyance splashing her head to toe out of nowhere, it seems. She realizes with a jolt that she has always _hated _Puck's weird, familiar pet names for Rachel, "I know you don't have anything else in common with her, but just because that's all your narrow little mind can see of interest in her, that doesn't mean that's all there is to her."

"Woah." Puck backs away a few inches, his eyes going wide and his brow furrowing. "Chill out, I _like _Rachel. I didn't mean-"

"Did you ever notice her seeming at all _flattered _when you call her your 'Jewish princess?'" Her eyes narrow as she feels that anger bubble. That familiar vicious loyalty again. She doesn't know where it comes from or why it's always so potent and sudden, but she does know that it pisses her the hell off the way others treat Rachel.

"Baby mama," Puck protests, putting a hand on her arm, probably in some attempt to calm her down like she's a skittish horse or something.

"Stop calling me that," Quinn snaps, throwing aside Puck's hand. "It's bad enough giving away your kid without people who claim to be your 'friend' calling you juvenile names every day to remind you. I have a _name_."

Puck opens his mouth to say something, but he wilts under Quinn's glare. His eyes dart to the carpet a few times, and after he seems to work up the nerve, he says, "Do you… you know, wanna talk about it?" He extends a tentative hand towards her shoulder again.

"_Don't _touch me," Quinn hisses, flinching away from his touch violently. Her blood is pounding in her ears, haphazardly out of sync with the music, and this time she doesn't think it has anything to do with Rachel. It's something she doesn't want to think about. She doesn't want to talk about it, whatever it is, this dark and dull cavity that's starting to throb meanly. She can't.

"Just stay away from me," she seethes, her breathing uncontrollably hot and short. "If you _ever _come near me again, I'll personally see to it that you'll never be physically capable of impregnating a girl ever again. Do you understand me?"

Puck doesn't answer. His nostrils flare as he backs away, and that's the unmistakable fear that Quinn's been missing out on for months now, but his mouth is also set in a firm line. He bobs his head in understanding once, dark eyes bewildered and spooked, and quickly backs out of the room off to the kitchen. Quinn grinds her molars together, looking around her without really taking anything in, and halfheartedly tries to get her breathing back under control. It's hard. She hasn't truly unleashed her viciousness on anyone in months, not since she's come back to school. She forgot how easy it was. She also remembers it feeling gratifying too, but the hollow flip-flopping in her stomach feels far from good. And that sensation was supposed to belong to Rachel, not get twisted into some horrible gut feeling that makes Quinn unpleasantly numb.

"It has nothing to do with Rachel, though," she mumbles aloud, shaking her head stubbornly as though to clear it of fog. It might as well be fog. She needs to move. She can't stand staying here any longer, shifting from one foot to the other in front of the fireplace and going between staring into her cup and scanning for Rachel Berry. It's good that at that second her sharp hazel eyes find the brunette, standing all the way across the wide living room near the couch with Finn. She looks so god damn gorgeous that Quinn has no idea why she hadn't been able to pick her out immediately. Now that she has, it's like Rachel stands out like a beacon. Quinn tosses her near-empty cup into the fireplace carelessly and weaves her way through the crush of teenage bodies. As she gets closer, she sees that Finn is talking and Rachel has that same vacant expression on her face as she did in Quinn's kitchen. Quinn finds herself minutely satisfied that Frankenteen bores Rachel. She marches up to the pair of them, and their heads turn to her instantly.

"Hi, Quinn," Rachel says brightly, holding her red cup like it's the holy grail.

"Come to the bathroom with me," Quinn says, more command than request, her words coming out in a jumbled rush. Finn's mouth is open - mid-_football _something or mid-_Call-of-Duty _something - as Quinn leads away a confused but agreeable Rachel Berry.

He calls out, "Hey, I-" but Quinn neither looks back nor cares. She knows he's got to be squinting the way he always does, somewhere behind them, since his girlfriend is trailing away without much hesitation. Quinn sort of likes it, and she sort of hates that churning inside when it comes to anything Finchel. She knows Finn hates this, though, that she's whisking Rachel away from him, but she hates seeing Rachel alone with him or happy with him, and that's why she does it. There's this ugly, clot-colored, growling throb in her head that beats itself dully when she sees them like that, and she doesn't care that she's agitating Finn's irritation when it means she's assuaging her own.

She doesn't even want to think about how similar the feeling is to how she felt last year when her _boyfriend _Finn was flirting with Rachel. Or how the "enemies" in each situation have reversed roles (but have they?).

Once they've stumbled into the bathroom Quinn spins around and shuts the door before locking it. She stands around for a minute, staring at the bathmat and trying to shut out her thoughts, before Rachel realizes Quinn's not using any of the facilities.

"What are we doing in here?" Rachel asks curiously, swaying on her feet only slightly.

"Breather," Quinn sighs, leaning back on the sink counter. She appreciates that the wallpaper is staying in place, but she knows at this rate they won't stay that way for long. If she keeps up drinking - which she will, she knows it, it's one of those nights - this heady buzz will become swirling, eddying inebriation.

"Good idea," Rachel beams, distractedly sliding her hand down the shower curtain behind her in search of a surface to lean on. "We don't want to be overwhelmed by all this alcohol." The brunette puts a little weight on the dark orange curtain and loses her balance, skidding gracelessly on the bathmat but managing to stay on her feet.

Quinn snorts. "Rachel Berry, are you drunk?"

The other girl looks up, her cheeks flushed bright pink. "I don't really know!" she giggles, beyond amused by her own clumsiness. "I don't suppose I have anything to compare it to."

"Well, I think you are," Quinn announces, holding out her arms listlessly like a needy child. "Or at least you're getting there." Rachel trudges over and into Quinn's arms, accepting her contented hug and reciprocating happily.

"Good," Rachel chirps as she pulls away, nodding brightly. Quinn's arms feel like clumsy blocks as they drag along Rachel's back and fall back to her sides. "I think it's fun."

"It should be," Quinn replies, smiling faintly as she looks at Rachel. She's thinking about the other girl's dads again, she can't help it. That curiosity about their acceptance of a gay child flashes through her head like a brushfire, before she thinks for once about what they look like. She's never seen them, so she only has her imagination. They don't look like Rachel, that much she knows for sure, and now what she really wonders is what it's like for them looking at their daughter. If they ever try to visualize her biological parents. If they even know, if they've even met them.

"What's it…" she begins slowly, transfixed by the bathmat at her feet and trying to put together a sentence, before Rachel speaks.

"You look so tired, Quinn," Rachel observes, concern clouding her brown eyes. "Tired, all the time it seems…"

"Sort of," Quinn replies with a sad smile, "But I'm okay. Come here." She gestures groggily for Rachel to join her on the sink.

Rachel takes a couple steps towards Quinn and the sink, unconsciously obeying like always but still hesitating. "Are we going to stay in here all night?" she giggles. "What about Finn, what about-"

"Fine," Quinn breathes heavily, immediately annoyed again. She closes the scene. That's that. But no, she thinks to herself, Rachel is ending the scene. Because of fucking Finn.

"The bathroom's still fun, though." Rachel nods dreamily after a pause, agreeing with herself.

"No, just go."

"Quinn," Rachel sighs, reaching over to put her hand on the blonde's. "Don't be-"

"I have to pee, okay?" Quinn interrupts, pushing herself off the sink and trying to sound bored. "Could you please leave?"

"Yeah," Rachel says agreeably, nodding and turning to the door. "Yeah, okay." She undoes the lock and opens the door to leave. Before she slips out she stops to look at Quinn, eyes inquisitive, but Quinn puts her hand on the faucet casually and stares at it, waiting to be alone.

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><p>Quinn can't face Puck, and that's a problem, so instead of cornering some other jock and getting more drinks made for her, she mixes them herself. It's better than facing people, and she <em>is <em>her mother's daughter after all. Quinn doesn't know measurements or anything, how much is a shot exactly or what is going to be too strong for her, but as she stands at the counter coolly pouring willy-nilly with bottles of Minute-Maid and Skor she recalls having watched the routine performed by Judy Fabray many times. Especially since last year. The mongrel screwdriver she mixed for herself burns going down; it's much more unpleasant than any cocktail a boy has ever made for her, but after that and the shot she sneaks for herself before rejoining the party with her second cup, she doesn't really mind a whole lot. Her throat feels number, and so do a lot of other things that have been giving her trouble lately.

Kitchen melts into living room after time.

"Let's dance!" Rachel shouts in Quinn's ear, having found her in the center of the party once the volume got turned up. "…Yeah?" she tacks on to the end, grinning and searching for comprehension in Quinn's eyes. Quinn figures Finn's in the bathroom or something, and hopes he stays there for a while. She smiles lazily and drapes her arms around Rachel's shoulders by way of reply.

They dance together, eyes shifting from open to closed depending on how hard or necessary it is to keep them open. Rachel laughs as they move in time with the music, bodies close, and Quinn reflects fleetingly on how nice it is that she can just have fun with this without overanalyzing Rachel's body heat and hating herself. She likes that about being drunk.

She likes Rachel drunk too. The other girl is a sloppy, giggling mess, but her dictionary has remained intact, and that only makes things funnier when she slurs a five syllable word. And cuter.

She likes the general atmosphere of most everyone around her being drunk, really. They've all been drinking at least a little, and they're all having fun, and everyone is dancing with someone else. Everyone is all up on each other. It's absolutely normal in this moment for Quinn to be dancing with Rachel, a "loser" and another girl to boot. It's fine and it feels right.

"If you wanna get with me, there's some things you gotta know." Quinn sings along with the lyrics of the song pulsing through them, feeling brave. She smirks - eyes half closed - down at Rachel as the other girl grins.

"Oh really, Ms. Fabray?" Rachel asks, lifting her eyebrows. "Like what?"

Quinn wants to say something about the fact that she's never been more aware of another person's body touching hers as she is now, with her knees touching Rachel's. Or that her head is spinning so fast right now. _Some things that Rachel's got to know_; that could be any number of things. What about the fact that the girl she's dancing with, her good _friend_, likes girls? That's an important bit of information.

"I just can't," Quinn laughs. "It's a secret."

They're not really dancing right now; they've slowed down and begun to sort of sway against one another, unable to multitask as they're talking and standing close so they can hear one another shout.

"I wanna know!" Rachel yells. Her eyes are dancing, enough for both their bodies.

Quinn just throws her head back and laughs, beginning to move with the beat again. Rachel tries to fake a pout just for a second, but her lips twitch in an irrepressible smile.

"Well, fine!" Rachel retorts up to Quinn. "I guess I won't tell you _my _secrets, then."

"Secrets, huh?" Quinn fires back, amused. "Like what, that you _secretly _stay up past your bedtime reading Nancy Drew after your dads say it's lights out? _So _badass, Rachel."

The song begins to fade out as Rachel snorts - rather gracelessly, Quinn notices, but she's drunk and it's endearing. "No!" Rachel shouts in mock-affront. "My delinquency has n-"

"Rachel!"

Quinn looks around her, splitting apart from the other girl's body (had she really been that close?), and seeing Finn edging awkwardly through the crush of partygoers. He approaches and Quinn feels her face fall automatically; she really, _really _dislikes his presence. She feels like whenever he's around Rachel is stifled and subdued. Eyes always glazed over. She doesn't like Rachel around Finn, and she especially doesn't like herself around Finn. Whenever he's around, she finds herself getting irritable and cattily jealous of him, for some reason. It's not something she can put her finger on.

"Oh, Finn!" Rachel exclaims, whirling around in surprise as he slips his hand around her waist. Something serpent-like uncoils itself and hisses in the hollow pit of Quinn's gut. She's not jealous because she has feelings for Finn or wants him back, and it's not that she wants to be the _only _one making Rachel happy… though that might be a fraction of it. _No, stop it_. She forces herself to start making sense. The main _problem_, she reasons, is that she's very protective of Rachel - that much has been established - and she just doesn't feel like Finn treats Rachel the way she deserves to be treated. He dulls her shine, and Quinn hates that. It's the hatred of them together that Quinn can actually put her finger on. And it's _so _potent - boiling and churning.

"I love this song," Quinn comments, to herself but not really, hating the plaintive lilt to her voice as she tugs on Rachel's hand faintly with her still-linked fingers. Rachel licks her lips and turns to Quinn absently, eyes bright, but Finn abruptly pulls Rachel closer - flush to his body - and Rachel's hand is jerked away.

Quinn blinks venomously at Finn for a split second, accidentally exposing her hatred for him in this moment, and she could swear she sees a challenge in his eyes, looking right at her instead of at his girlfriend. She hates his dull, challenging eyes, his possessive hand gripping Rachel tight around the waist, his can of beer in the other hand that he usually carries around only for appearances' sake. She hates his dumb half-assed pussy self, scared of drinking but even more scared of sticking out. No one ever realizes that Finn is ten times more slave to popularity and appearance than Quinn ever was or will be.

"Hey Rachel," he says with a smug grin. He looks just slightly drunk to Quinn, though. Maybe tonight the beer's not just for show.

Quinn ignores him. "Rachel," she mutters. The friend/boyfriend tug-of-war; she loathes that it's come to this.

Rachel opens her mouth to say something to Quinn, at a loss and caught in between, but the hesitation is enough to frustrate Quinn just like it had back in her bedroom.

"Fine," Quinn snaps, the pride she's so desperately clinging to maintaining that she doesn't show her irritation. "You two dance together. I need a refill anyway." She turns away, Rachel's bewildered open mouth burned into her mind, and she knows she failed. Her jaw clenches bitterly, uncontrollably, as she stalks away towards the kitchen. The thought of Rachel dancing with Finn the same way she had with Quinn just makes it worse, magnifying not only her humiliation at obviously revealing her jealousy but also her anger. She's always so angry. The energy of exerting so much inexplicable hatred leaves her all parts galvanized and immobilized and drained; she wishes so much that she were happy. She wishes it with every hair, every fiber, every particle.


	9. Chapter 9: The Chair

_**Author's Note**: Party part two. If angst was a place I'd live there, and Quinn would be my neighbor. Gotta love the angst._  
><em>Please review! It motivates me to write more. If you haven't realized that already.<em>

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><p>Two more strong screwdrivers disappear down Quinn's throat in the course of a half hour, and by now she's definitely drunk. She watches Rachel, anchored to Finn, about as closely as she dares, trying to be disinterested. But it's just as she knew would happen, once she's found Rachel the other girl is an inescapable beacon for Quinn's eyes. She sits on the fringe of the living room on a wooden dining chair, feeling around her the dimness and the overwhelming energy of the room and staring into the seemingly bottomless orange contents of her cup. Everything is something of a blur.<p>

A body drops down in a chair next to her. The girl is silent, staring out at the party with Quinn. Quinn just waits for the brunette to speak.

"You look mighty lonesome over here, tubbers," she finally says. "All the guys scared away by your stretch marks?"

Quinn doesn't bother looking to her right. She's surprised it took Santana this long to make an appearance; then again, it's a big party and the upstairs is active as well. Quinn cynically supposes Santana might've been active up there.

"Yeah," she deadpans in reply. "And… and I guess I am pretty lonesome." Her head tilts up, heavy and ponderous as the rotation of earth, and the axis of her gaze flickers to Rachel.

Santana sighs. "Never would have pegged you for a sad drunk." The other girl doesn't sound so happy herself, but Quinn doesn't care much to dwell on it. She and Santana used to be close friends, back before Babygate. They used to make a great team, a force of popularity to be reckoned with. The two of them plus Brittany were the Unholy Trinity, the Immortal Godhead of secondary education. Teen royalty. But after Quinn's fall from grace Santana latched onto Brittany without - evidently - much of a second thought. When Quinn was pregnant, her "friend" never reached out to her, and she realized that the rivalry and convenience of her friendship with Santana was really all there was to it. And now they hardly talk anymore.

"Never would have pegged you for someone who cares," Quinn replies woodenly. She still doesn't bother with the effort required to meet Santana's eyes.

"Wouldn't blame you," the other girl responds breezily. "I'm typically not."

Quinn keeps silent, instead watching Rachel across the room. The brunette awkwardly dances with Finn, stumbling partly because of the alcohol she's consumed (Quinn has no idea how much), and partly because of the clumsiness of her partner. Still, she looks relatively happy, and she lights up with bubbling laughter when Finn mutters something in her ear. The light catches her just so, coloring her hair, her teeth, her smiling eyes, and for a moment it's enough to make Quinn's chest twist and clench like someone's grabbed it tight with their fist. She can feel her brow knot and her mouth part in some sort of mask of hopeless desperation. A sigh leaks out with the slump of her shoulders.

"Q," Santana sighs, "What's eating you?"

"It's nothing," the blonde lies, "Doesn't matter."

"Really? Because you're staring over there at Frankenteen and his Bride and you're looking like you're about to keel over from heartbroken pining."

Quinn tilts her head back and empties the contents of her cup, shuddering as the liquid hits the roiling pit of her stomach. Blearily, she turns to look at Santana. The brunette stares back with hard-eyed sympathy.

"Doesn't matter," Quinn repeats, swallowing again. Her mouth tastes horribly unpleasant.

Santana eyes her keenly. "Are you jealous of Rachel?"

"No."

"So you're jealous of Finn."

"I… I don't know, Santana."

"You two seem to have a pretty intense friendship," the brunette observes. Quinn's drunken mind is still trying to swim around that last question.

"One would almost think you're gay for Berry."

Quinn's blood freezes. She literally feels her veins go cold. No. There's no way it could look like that. Her thoughts are all just one big kaleidoscope of denial. "You're wrong," she blurts, shifting skittishly in the uncomfortable wooden chair.

"I'm just saying, Q." Santana raises her hand defensively. "All the clinging and staring that goes on between you two makes it seem that way."

"Whatever," Quinn retorts dismissively. The bite is only slightly lost in translation through the slurring of her words. She may be snarling, just the way she always had, but inside everything is jumping and hiccupping in panic. She prays - also like she always does and always will - that her shaking hands won't give her away.

The other girl just rolls her eyes, and Quinn could swear that despite her best efforts Santana can see right through her. "God, Fabray, you're so fucking uptight. You don't always have to be so hostile, you know. I'm just trying to talk to you for once, if you'd let me. There are worse things I could be suggesting."

But the red alert inside Quinn's mind blares too loud. It can't be that she comes across as having a crush on Rachel. It _can't _fucking be. After all she's done to keep her secret safe, to keep herself looking straight. She can't do this. She's floundering.

"Well, your suggestion is bullshit," she growls, her old mannerisms leaping forth faster and harder than bullets, gripping her and controlling her like she had never even repressed them to begin with. That hostile side of her may as well be all she is and ever will be, the way it crawls under the surface of her skin just waiting for whenever she feels she's under attack. How anyone could ever love this pathetic, shaking, sealed-off, angry, vicious mess… she'll never know.

Santana shakes her head, expression sour, and slowly pushes to her feet. "You're so defensive, Berry might as well be your Monica Lewinski." Before Quinn can open her mouth to respond, the other girl turns and disappears into the throng of bodies.

Minutes pass. Quinn doesn't know how long. The amount of time it takes her to get up, mix another strong drink, bump into three jocks, spill a little down the front of her sweater, and sit back down - plus however long she stays there after that. Thirty seconds? Five minutes? Ten? No. She swallows another acrid gulp, trying to focus on this task. Four songs have played. Since most songs are three to four minutes long, that means she's sat here anywhere from twelve to sixteen minutes. Now that that's done, she wonders fleetingly what time it is. She has no idea; it must be past one. Maybe Rachel will be tired and want to go home, and it would be most sensible for her to crash at Quinn's. But no, her mom… and Rachel… Maybe Rachel's house instead. But the frothing sac that is Quinn's stomach shudders: it's either the alcohol or the thought of a sleepover with Rachel. She can't think about it. It's making her ill. Quinn swallows thickly, methodically forcing saliva down. It evens her breathing.

She doesn't know what she's waiting for or why she stays rooted here on the fringe. She would much rather be gone. But where… she doesn't know that either.

But she looks up and there's Rachel, squeezing unsteadily through bodies and approaching Quinn. She smiles cheerfully when she meets the blonde's eyes, mouthing "hi"; she's drunk, Quinn can tell that much. And the haphazard way she drops into the chair next to Quinn… yeah, drunk.

"Quinn!" Rachel exclaims, more than excited to have found her friend. "Where did you go? I missed you!"

Quinn smiles wryly, breathing (calming her guts) a few times. "This chair, right here." She slaps a wooden leg for good measure, and Rachel giggles.

"I was looking for you everywhere!" she laments, swaying unsteadily in her seat. She puts a hand on Quinn's shoulder. "I wanted to dance with you. Finn is atrocious."

"I'll say," Quinn mutters. Hearing Rachel complain about Finn doesn't give her as much satisfaction as it normally does. Her mind is just a dark muddle of irritation, colors like navy blue and blood clot maroon and an ugly olive, the swirl of the teenagers and lights in front of her eyes. Her head is heavy and seems to loll whenever she moves it just slightly. She guides it over to point at Rachel and her friend's face is, well, the picture of inebriation. Sleepy, blinking, swaying, and also utter content. She smiles dopily at Quinn.

"I like dancing with you so much more." Her hand slides from Quinn's shoulder like melted butter and a heavy weight replaces it - Rachel's head rests there now. Rachel's soft chocolate-brown hair tickles Quinn's neck, and Quinn's heart flies up in her throat. She stays absolutely still.

"I prefer singing with you too," Rachel murmurs, yawning. She puts her hand on Quinn's arm and hugs it to herself, snuggling into her friend's body heat. "I love when we sing duets together."

Quinn's blood pounds in her ears, echoing at the speed of light from her fingertips and the places where Rachel touches her - every one of those patches of skin is hyper-aware. It's like that dream, the one she tried so hard to block out. That dream…

She swallows again, trying to calm her stomach and her thudding brain and her deafening heartbeat, but it doesn't calm her. That panic, that high, that euphoria, that terror, it's too overwhelming.

_One would almost think you're gay for Berry._

Quinn doesn't see Santana anywhere in sight, but her paranoia is immediate. She imagines the other girl watching, what she would see, what she would think… What she would _say_. What does it look like? Rachel draped over Quinn, delicate hand running up and down the blonde's sleeve, head resting on the other's shoulder.

_All the clinging…_

It's too much to keep sane. Terrified, she snaps.

"Get your man hands off me," Quinn snarls, shrugging away. Rachel's hands are thrown aside, and the brunette is more alert again. Quinn tries not to look at her face, but she can see hurt, confusion, and automatic anger drawing the other girl's brows together and parting her lips.

"Quinn, what-"

"Just don't." She stumbles to her feet, the bright red panic still pulsing in her ears. She tries so hard, still, to avert her eyes from Rachel; the last thing she wants to see now is the damage. And she _knows _there's damage, it's the worst thing Quinn could possibly say, and that's why she said it. Rachel just sits there in shock, and good thing Quinn's not looking at her face (like a coward) or else the expression there would break her heart.

"What's going on?"

Now it's Finn. Of course it's Finn. He lumbers around Quinn, face scrunched up in retch-worthy confused righteousness, coming to Rachel's rescue. He must figure he's making up the points he lost that time by his locker, taking them from Quinn or something, having seen that something was going amiss over here and hearing raised voices.

"Quinn." Rachel again, reaching.

Finn's well-meaning hands on Quinn, reaching. What is it with everyone thinking that touching her makes everything better? For a split-second Quinn figures well, no, Rachel's the exception to that, but then she remembers thirty seconds ago and how touching just fucked everything up.

"Get away from me," she barks, feeling her face twist hideously into hostility. She throws off Finn's hands, splashing his own beer on him. He stumbles backwards, Rachel gets to her feet (_no, please, stop caring_), and Quinn clumsily whirls around and stalks away. Always walking away like doing so will erase things, like once she goes their eyes won't be following her. Always the stares. _Always_. But no one else is staring, no one else at the party noticed; they just dance, drink, mash up against her as one sweaty and breathing body as she tries to get through them to the door. Her head spins and pounds, pouring sweat all over her slick skin as some drunk lubricant, and it's a wonder she makes it to the door without winding up on the floor. It's all she can do to throw it open and stagger down the steps into the lawn. Twenty more steps down the sidewalk, nighttime starry and slick and both parts humid and crisp. An insistent blocking out of everything (she's good at this, isn't she?) and her awkwardly wobbly ankles. Walking is not easy.

And how will she get home?

She walks past Finn's jeep, zigzagging towards her street. It's only nine blocks away. At the corner of Puck's street she halts, lurching, and the spinning of everything, especially her stomach, is too much. It all comes rushing up before she can stop it and she hunches over, throwing up in the storm drain.

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><p>It takes Quinn a little over half an hour to get home, what with her inebriation making it difficult for her to navigate or move very quickly. At some point, while walking, when she realized it in fact wasn't raining as Rachel had warned it might, Quinn remembered her coat left at Puck's. She stood stupidly in one spot deliberating whether or not to turn back for it for a little while, and that added a good three or four minutes to her time. In the end she decided to press on.<p>

By the time she gets home she's somewhat numb. She can't feel the aching of her sore feet or the slow burn of her cold skin… or anything else. Rachel Berry went up and out of her in the storm drain, it would seem. Quinn is thankful. This time when she throws open a door, she doesn't feel like she's running away from anything. She's coming home.

But even getting through the doorway is a noisy struggle. The front door thuds against Quinn's body, trapped in the jamb as she lurches over the mat, and once it slams loudly Quinn hopskips clumsily out of her flats and kicks them against the wall. The shoes leave black scuffs on the wall. Oops.

It doesn't matter that she sounds like a herd of elephants stampeding inside, her mother doesn't care. If Judy Fabray is even _home _she'll be passed out in bed; what should she care about the comings and goings of her teenage daughter? Quinn chuckles cynically at the thought, swaying like a top. No, it's not like her mom cares. It's lucky, too, at rare times like this when Quinn comes home completely plastered; most kids would be grounded back into the Stone Age.

Not Quinn. Quinn is one of those _lucky _kids whose parent doesn't give a shit.

She teeters into the kitchen, stopping short against the counter (like a buffer for her crazy bumper-kart drunk self) and dropping her keys onto its surface. That too makes noise, jangling and garish. Oh well.

"Quinn."

Were she sober, Quinn would have jumped about a foot in the air. She's usually pretty jumpy. But as it is, her reflexes are at an all time low and all she does is blearily turn her head to the four Judy Fabrays sitting at the kitchen table. No, once Quinn's head comes to a halt they all merge into just one mom.

"Quinn," Mrs. Fabray repeats, mouth pursed in a thin line. Her arms are folded over a maroon silk-robed chest.

"Hi mom," Quinn breathes thickly, clutching the counter for support.

"Never mind the fact that you've stumbled through the door at two a.m. smelling like a keg," Mrs. Fabray says briskly, glaring at her daughter unblinkingly. "Do you mind telling me what this is?" With that, Mrs. Fabray holds up a small object between the thumb and forefinger.

Quinn squints, but she can't even make the object out. Her eyes are doing a poor job of going into focus. "You know, I can't really tell."

"I'll help you, then." Judy Fabray's voice is dangerously calm, and Quinn knows her mother well enough to recognize that she is very angry. Quinn inherited the affectation after all, and uses it on her peers almost daily; she ought to know. "It's a tube of mascara with a label on it that reads 'Rachel B. Berry.'"

Rachel's mascara. She must have left it here when she came over to help (watch) Quinn get ready for the party. Quinn knows where this is heading, and she also knows that she's in very big trouble. This was what she was trying to avoid since day one.

"Oh," Quinn remarks dully. "I know what that is. It's Rachel's mascara." It could be she doesn't give a shit because she's drunk. Or maybe she just feels she hasn't got much left to lose.

Judy Fabray sighs. "I'm not an idiot, Quinn. I know that Rachel Berry has been in the house. You're spending time with this girl, aren't you?" With this, her face softens; a disappointed, beleaguered expression replaces the hard disapproval. "What about Santana? Sweetie, you two used to be such good friends."

Quinn exhales sullenly, insulted and annoyed. "Mom, Rachel is a straight-A student who volunteers down at the soup kitchen every Sunday. Santana has been arrested three times. If you're talking about bad influences-"

"You know why your father and I don't approve," Mrs. Fabray interrupts stonily. Somewhere in the thickness of Quinn's mind she wonders if her mother meant to include Russel in her statement. It's doubtful. Quinn's father is just so permanently imbued in this household, it's hard to remember he isn't a part of the warped little family anymore.

"Rachel Berry comes from a household that doesn't uphold the same values as we do," Mrs. Fabray continues. "You need to be around people who encourage good morals, especially after what happened last year. Rachel's not that kind of friend."

Quinn notices that her mother called the Berrys a _household _and not a _family_. She wonders wryly how the fucked up Fabrays in this house could be considered a family when Rachel and her loving dads are not.

"Okay, okay, I get it," she replies, eyelids like lead and words slurring, "Let's cut to the chase. No black friends, no poor friends, no gays or Jews or atheists or anyone else we're better than allowed in the house. Just me, you, and dad, right mom?" She's never spoken to her mother like this. She's always just shut her mouth in the illusion of agreement whenever her parents told her what was best for her; she's always been such a _good _and _obedient _daughter to them, after all. But then again she's never been drunk in a parent's presence before either, or so completely dismantled that she doesn't care that she's speaking her mind.

Judy Fabray looks slightly taken aback at what has come out of her daughter's mouth. Her outrage is palpable. "Lucy-"

"And normally I wouldn't give a _shit_," Quinn interrupts, looking contemptuously over at her mother through bleary and bloodshot eyes, "But just for your sake I'll promise it won't happen again, the thing with Rachel. Girl scout's honor." She only says it at all because she know it's true; Rachel will never want to talk to Quinn again. And she nearly chuckles at the dark irony: having sworn as a girl scout when she's such a giant raging lesbo. It's so funny. She almost laughs. Instead she pushes back the grotesque half-sneer, half-grin (she hates the awful things her face must be doing tonight, the uncontrolled contortions of hateful emotion), and turns on her heel before she can register the reaction on her mother's face. Quinn just doesn't care. She leaves the room, still unsteady from inebriation, with Judy Fabray behind her.

"Lucy!" Mrs. Fabray's voice calls out, colored with frustration but weak at the same time. Quinn ignores her and heads up the stairs to her room. Her mother doesn't make an attempt to go after her.


	10. Chapter 10: The Doorjamb

_**Author's Note:** Wow, I am super super sorry for keeping you hanging so long without an update. After putting you guys through that, I have no right to guilt you for reviews anymore, do I? I have a billion excuses, from writer's block to hating having to write these Judy Fabray scenes, but oh well. I'll quit whining and keep writing. Thanks for sticking with me. :)_

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><p>Quinn Fabray doesn't need another reason to get kicked out again. She's known it all along, and that's why she keeps her critical opinions and honesty to herself, like a hidden tattoo.<p>

She always had, at least.

Unfortunately, she wakes up the next morning remembering everything, every disastrous detail from her miserable night. For a split second when she opens her eyes it hits her, harder than the sunlight or the nausea, the memory of everything with Rachel. The wind disappears from her lungs, and her entire body deflates, lying limp in her leggings and bra from last night. That segment she quickly blocks out, willing it stubbornly away just like that dream from a few nights ago. And then there's the episode with her mother; Quinn groans, regretting not what she said but having said it. There's going to be tension with her mother that she doesn't need to deal with right now. Not on top of everything.

Not on top of Rachel. No implication intended (god no, Quinn thinks, not like that at all, never).

But Judy Fabray isn't home. There are some benefits to having an absentee parent, Quinn observes dryly as she shuffles from empty room to empty room downstairs, looking around listlessly. No sign of her. As for her location, Quinn's money is on the mall.

Quinn's mouth feels slimy and sour, and her headspace is uncomfortably taut; for a moment she regrets having got out of bed, but all those early-morning Cheerios practices have conditioned her to never sleep in past ten. Though her sensory organs are punishing her, she probably couldn't drift off anyway. Her body's not the only problem; her mind has a mind of its own, and she's locked in a battle of wills with it to keep it from moving. These thoughts, prickling and quick, keep touching down. It's contact, seize away, contact, seize away, like fingers burned on a hot plate. Quinn doesn't want to think about Rachel. It's not easy, though, controlling what your mind automatically flickers to. And it flickers to Rachel: Rachel smiling with a secret pressed up dancing against Quinn, Rachel draped lazily with her heavy head resting on Quinn, Rachel's scalded eyes and flaring nostrils piercing through Quinn. The images alone are unbearable enough, if Quinn lets herself reflect on what Rachel must have felt or how Rachel must hate her, she'll be just hardly short of overwhelmed.

But Rachel does hate her. She must. Quinn knows that; the concept throbs dully in her head like a migraine as she shuffles back up the stairs to her room. So there. That's what she gets. That's her punishment for those years of being a selfish bully, and especially for being a big fucking queer. This is the discouragement she probably needs, that she deserves.

It's what she gets for being a little bit happy for once.

Her phone's on her nightstand. She flips it open and checks her messages: three missed calls from Rachel and one from Santana. And two text messages.

_Santana: hey where are you?_

_Puck: sry about last night_

Quinn's sore eyes scan the words on the screen several times before she flips her phone shut with a sigh. She sits motionlessly on the edge of her bed, lacking the energy or the motivation to respond to any of her messages or calls. She knows she should text Santana back, at least, and let her know that she got home okay, but even that seems like just too much work.

Quinn lets down her wall and lets herself think about Rachel for just a second. Those three missed calls from last night, what were they about? What did Rachel want? Was she drunkenly trying to get a hold of Quinn to chew her out? Would she do so anyway sober? Was she looking for an explanation, an apology, her mascara? Quinn stares hesitantly at the tube sitting on her nightstand. It's like the mascara represents Rachel herself, and Quinn can hardly look at it for the guilt slowly but surely eating at her. After a few seconds she gets up abruptly, swipes the mascara off her nightstand, and goes across the room to drop it out of sight in her purse. She'll give it back to Rachel when she sees her on Monday.

She's just about to flop back down on her bed when she hears the faint but unmistakable sound of the doorbell downstairs. Who on earth could be ringing the bell this early on a Sunday? The two remaining Fabrays hardly ever have any visitors, even during more normal hours, and when they do it's almost always for Judy, who can't be expecting anyone seeing as she's _out_.

Either way, Quinn can't go down there in her underwear.

"Fuck," she hisses, stumbling gracelessly out of her leggings, and running to throw on a t-shirt and sweats. The bell rings twice more as she trips down a couple of stairs on her way down (the muffled anvil in her head and wobbly ankles are doing nothing for her balance), yelling out "Coming!" before coming to a stop before the front door. She opens it to find…

Santana.

The brunette, staring at her shoes with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jeans, looks up when the door opens.

"What are you doing here?" Quinn blurts out before Santana can say anything. She is the last person Quinn expected to find on her doorstep on a Saturday morning.

Santana just raises her eyebrows and looks Quinn up and down. "Shit, Q, you look like you got hit by the ugly truck this morning," she says lightly, smiling slightly.

She doesn't look so great herself either, with the faintest of dark circles under her eyes and a tired look about her mouth, and Quinn is about to scathingly point out that fact, but she bites back the words. She remembers Santana's words last night: _"I'm just trying to talk to you for once, if you'd let me."_ Quinn takes a deep breath. "What are you doing here?" she repeats evenly.

Santana averts her eyes and shrugs, looking sullenly embarrassed. "Believe it or not, I'm actually here to check up on you. Make sure you got home okay last night."

"Why?" Quinn asks quizzically. Since when does Santana care?

"Because you walked out of Puckerman's house after getting in a fight with Finn and dumping his beer on him at one-thirty a.m., shit-face drunk and by yourself, and disappeared without a trace. When you didn't answer any of Berry's phone calls she made me try your phone too, but you didn't answer that either." She shrugs again. "For all we knew you stumbled into a bear trap and bled to death, or god forbid got kidnapped by some pervert with a Catholic schoolgirl fetish."

Rachel… had called three times to see if Quinn was okay? "Is that why you're here now?" Quinn asks slowly. "Did Rachel make you come?"

Santana rolls her eyes and Quinn inwardly curses her stupid suggestive word choice. "No, Q. This was my idea. Although, Berry did text me at like six in the fucking morning to ask if I'd got a hold of you. How she ever got my number, I'll never know. I don't know if I'll have to change it now or what."

Quinn frowns for a second, still processing. Rachel worried about her safety even after what she said, and _Santana _here at her door checking to see that she's okay, even though the brunette had a vivid history, as a display of contradicting character, of dropping off other drunk Cheerios in cornfields overnight with no remorse . "Well…" Quinn croaks, "Um, well, thanks. Thank you."

Santana just shrugs yet again. "It wasn't a problem," she responds humbly. They stand awkwardly for a second, and Quinn doesn't know if they're friends again now. What she does know is that she had never really noticed Santana's subtle attempts to reach out and be nice, in her own way. She flashes back to the night before, to her drunken conversation with her friend; just because Santana insults you doesn't mean she's being mean or spiteful. It never does. She calls Brittany names all the time, after all, and she damn near loves the girl.

"Right," Quinn begins unsurely. "Do you, uh, want to come in?"

Santana smiles wistfully, and for a bittersweet moment Quinn knows that things could be okay again. "Sorry," the brunette replies, "I've gotta get going."

"Yeah," Quinn says quickly, "Sure."

"I'll see you at practice tomorrow, though."

"Mhm." Quinn grabs the doorknob for support and swings the door back and forth awkwardly. She's not foolishly optimistic enough about this friendship to think that right here, right now, isn't awkward. It probably still will be for a while. And, if she's being honest with herself, she'll probably never get the hang of that foolish optimism thing either.

But this will get better. This can, will, get _good_.

"Okay," Santana says, her lips quirking upwards ruefully. "See you." And as she turns away to go back down the steps, Quinn affords her a small smile.

"Yeah, until tomorrow."

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><p>Quinn knows she'll have to talk to her mother sometime. They're going to have one of <em>those<em> talks. It might be mainly about Rachel, or it might be predominantly about Quinn's own terrible behavior. She can't quite decide what she's going to get reamed out for. All she knows is that she shouldn't be so cavalier about it. It might have seemed like the right way to go last night, when she was hammered, but by Saturday evening Quinn is very aware of the very real danger. It doesn't much matter that her parents' team of discipline has been split up; both Russel and Judy are very strict, and Quinn has every reason to worry. Because of her parents she'd lost her home at the age of sixteen. Just thinking about it makes her feel like she has a block sitting just under her ribcage, straining against her bone and skin to get out. It could be her rabbit heartbeat. It could just be that fear she always has inside somewhere: fear of messing up, fear of getting kicked out, fear of being outed, fear… fear of everything. She just has so much to lose. Quinn sits around the house late afternoon on Friday watching TV and knows she's going to grovel.

Judy comes back just before five, arms full of groceries and other bags from the mall. A little while later she unloads and starts cooking dinner, grim-faced and neutral as she always is at home. Quinn stands in the doorway for a minute, leaning against the jamb and watching her mother rinse a head of lettuce.

"I'm sorry about last night," she mutters finally. Judy looks up from the sink. Quinn goes on; "I acted really stupidly and I shouldn't have said what I did."

Quinn's mother looks at her appraisingly for a few seconds, eyes tired. "It was very inappropriate, Quinn," she says stonily. "And, if I can be honest, completely unexpected. What happened to you?"

Quinn scans the floor. Of all the genuine and totally stupid answers she could give. Instead of beginning with the truth, she just sighs. "I went to a party last night and had a little too much to drink. It was a poor decision on my part. Peer pressure, you know?" Quinn pauses and takes a breath. "I went overboard. It won't happen again."

Judy's face softens a bit and Quinn knows she did the right thing by mentioning peer pressure and linking it all to that whole high school popularity thing that Judy wants so much for her daughter.

"I'm glad you went, sweetie; it's good for you to get back in the swing of things this school year and start spending time with your old friends."

Yeah, she definitely said the right thing.

"Just be careful," Judy continues. "You overdid it last night, and your behavior was completely out of line."

"I know," Quinn says quickly, relief taking seed in her gut. She seems to be on the getting-away-with-it end of things. As an afterthought… an idea hits her. "And as for the Rachel thing," she adds swiftly, "it's not like I invited her over or anything. She's dating Finn, and… and he brought her with when we met to go over to the party together." She pauses in the middle of her lie to shrug. "It was pretty much sprung on me." She can't bring herself to fib about Rachel or deprecate her any further. She just can't, not even to save her own skin.

Judy just sighs, though. "It's okay. In that aspect, I'll admit I was too hard on you last night." Her tired gray eyes anchor Quinn's across the counter. "I just want what's best for you, sweetie, and you're at a point where what you need most is to surround yourself with good influences." She looks down thoughtfully for a moment, wringing her wet hands on a dish towel. "Finn's a nice boy," she adds as an afterthought, turning to the refrigerator to take a carton of cherry tomatoes from the crisper.

_He only dumped my ass when I was pregnant_, Quinn thinks bitterly and suddenly. But she also lied to him; it's not like she ever really deserved his pity. And as long as Judy likes him and he's dating Rachel, it doesn't matter. His name was the other magic keyword that put Quinn in the clear with her mom.

"Yeah, he is," Quinn agrees gently.


	11. Chapter 11: The Lockers

_**Author's Note**: This is the part where I beg for reviews, but honestly, I'd be pretty tactless if I did so after how long I went after updating, huh? And, just so you folks know, I've busted through the writer's block over Thanksgiving break so hopefully I'll be better about updating this. I already have chapter 12 written, since I split this one in half (it was sooooo long)._

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><p>Quinn Fabray doesn't need another reason to dread school, but fuck it, she's got one anyway. Six a.m. Cheerios practice on Monday drags by in a sluggish blur, with roundoffs, laps, and pyrotechnics doing nothing to distract her from her thoughts. Doing nothing to distract her from the dreaded interaction with Rachel - whatever it may be - looming ahead.<p>

"It'll be okay, Q," Brittany sympathizes, patting Quinn on the shoulder, as the squad finally disperses and trudges from the gym towards the girls' locker room half an hour before the first bell.

Quinn walks alongside Brittany, feet throbbing dully in their pristine white sneakers, and looks over at her blonde friend. "Thanks, Britt," she says softly, the sincerity of her friend causing her to only have to halfway force her smile. She doesn't bother asking what Brittany is talking about; either Santana talked to her about the blowout with Rachel or she just witnessed it herself on Friday night.

"Christ, I hate Mondays." Santana brushes past, scowling. She shoves a gaggle of freshmen out of her way, Quinn knows, to be the first one to the more spacious handicap shower stall.

Quinn grits her teeth. "No kidding," she mutters under her breath, thinking again of Rachel.

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><p>Sometimes the red and white uniform does feel like a corset. It always hugs Quinn's body snugly, but often she can feel the pressures of her mother and her peers come to life in the polyester's cinching, splintering grip. This sleeveless top and skirt mean so much to everyone around her that they seem to grow hungrily around her, trying their best to assert their importance. This uniform. High school has just made it so goddamn essential. At times Quinn has to step back and remind herself not to take it for granted, though. The uniform's heavy on her frame, sure - like a suit of armor would be. It functions the same way. It keeps her safe in this hideous minefield they call a school.<p>

Honestly, the main reason Quinn ever joined the squad was so that she could have the uniform as armor. In her imagination arrows labeled "lesbo" and "dyke" whistle shrilly through the air only to glance off the metal and chain mail.

After what happens in the locker room Quinn remembers strongly why she's grateful for it.

She's hunched over with one leg up on the bench, pulling up her socks, when she feels it. That prickle. That feeling that she's being glanced at, whispered about, that sensation that her self-conscious self is more attuned to than anyone else. It prickles the back of her neck like that Velcro she feels there when she watches a scary movie.

This is only a split second before she looks up and sees a clique of freshman girls chatting quietly over at the next row of lockers. Three of them. They speak casually and quietly, but their eyes dart just slightly, and Quinn catches a snatch of it:

"-and apparently it was because Quinn Fabray-"

Her heart leaps up into her throat as she thinks initially, instinctively, _they know_. She fumbles her shoelaces. But no, she rationalizes, she has to stay calm. No need to jump to conclusions. Still, this dull worry skitters about the back of Quinn's skull as she licks her lips and straightens up.

"What are you girls gossiping about?" she calls out purposefully, sharply.

They stop, confusion fluttering over their features for just a moment before it's replaced by guilt and the slightest twinge of recognizable fear. Seeing this immediately awashes Quinn with a savage pleasure. She can still get what she wants this way. Some things haven't changed.

One girl fidgets with the hem of her skirt and casually calls back, "Nothing." The other two echo agreeably.

Quinn says nothing for a moment, concentrating instead on adjusting the waist of her skirt so that it's perfectly snug. She makes them wait for her response, makes them sweat just a _little _bit more in thinking they're in trouble with the head cheerleader. Quinn Fabray knows what the fuck she's doing when it comes to getting what she wants from the people at this school who bend at the knee for the sake of this social hierarchy. They're so easy.

"I heard my name," she says dryly. "I know that you know I did. Just save us all some time and own up, okay?"

They exchange hesitant glances with one another. It's so cliché that Quinn almost laughs. Almost. But despite the airtight control she has over these girls and this situation, her lungs are feelings ever so slightly airless. That fear is nagging at the sensitive scalp skin on the back of her skull. She's not laughing.

"It's not a big deal," the middle girl offers casually. "We're not talking shit or anything, we're not like that," (that second part at least is for sure a lie), "We were just talking Finn Hudson's breakup."

"And how he mentioned you," a second girl chimes in.

Quinn's eyes narrow. "What?" she blurts in surprise, jaw clenching tightly. This is the last thing she was expecting. Finn, broken up? With Rachel? How didn't Quinn know about this? And how is she involved? Her heart flies to her throat and she swallows with some difficulty, trying to force down the panic, but if there really _was _a breakup her first wild instinct is to think that Finn is telling people that Quinn Fabray is a huge dyke. "What's going on with Finn?" she demands.

"Kaitlyn's boyfriend told her," Cheerio number one says promptly, and the first two girls look sidelong over at the girl who hasn't spoken yet. She blushes and smiles faintly.

"My boyfriend plays football on the varsity team." The girl pauses to grin with shy pride, and her two friends nod happily. "And, well, he was telling me how at practice yesterday Finn Hudson was talking about breaking up with his girlfriend and, uh…" At this point the girl stops to glance up at Quinn nervously. "Well, I guess he said it was because of you. Or something…"

Quinn takes a step closer, throat constricting with difficulty around the lump like it's a mouse in a snake's belly. "What do you mean? How would that have anything to do with me?"

They shrug and look away, and Quinn thinks frantically of the worst. He's telling people she's gay. Just the thought of being outed makes her itchily uncomfortable being in the girls' locker room.

"He didn't say," the first cheerleader offers, shaking her head. So at least there's that. There are no rumors about Quinn's sexuality going around. She relaxes a little.

"Didn't you used to date Finn?" the third girl, the shy one, pipes up suddenly. All three of them, piqued, crane their necks towards Quinn slightly.

She blinks. "Yeah."

The first two cheerleaders exchange a quick glance in a fraction of a second. "Do you like him?" number two asks.

Quinn clears her throat in chagrin. "Why would you think that?"

Number two's eyes shift back and forth doubtfully. She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "Well, it's like, the only possible explanation, right? If Finn and his girlfriend broke up supposedly because of you…"

"Are you trying to get him back?" the first girl finishes, eyeing Quinn shrewdly.

Quinn exhales through her nostrils hotly, trying to calmly wrap her head around the pettiness and stupidity of these freshmen. Her frustration aggravates that familiar wrath, poking it like a hornets' nest. She steps closer to the cluster of girls, noting with grim satisfaction how they shrink away from her slightly.

"Okay, girls, you're going to listen to me," she says silkily, sinking easily into the part of Cheerios captain. "I have nothing to do with Finn or his little breakup. I do not _want _him. He's a shitty kisser and I very gladly skipped away from that little train wreck of a relationship last year." Quinn notes with relish the looks of self-doubt and unease on the faces of her audience, and she stalks nearer, somewhat sadistically wanting more.

"And while I'm on the subject," she continues, her voice lowering ominously, "You three will stop spreading this unimaginative little rumor _today_, and I _will _find out if it goes any further. If you don't, I will personally see to it that the extent of your cheerleading career at this school will amount to fetching towels and scrubbing bloodstains out of the uniforms." Quinn looks slowly in turn at each spooked colorless face in front of her. "Understood?"

"Yeah," the first girl says somewhat hoarsely. The other two just nod.

Quinn smiles like a cat who has cornered three mice. "Great," she responds. "Now why don't you lesbians quit watching me change and get out of here."

The three freshmen (not that they even _have _anything to be insecure about with their sexuality, lucky ignorant girls) scatter instantly. Ponytails bobbing, skirts twirling, they all but sprint for the door. Again, they're almost comical, and again, she would laugh if not for the fact that right now Quinn is on the verge of tears.

Once the girls are gone, all the anger and bravado rush out of her, and she deflates like a punctured balloon. She sinks onto the bench, clenching and unclenching her fists, and trying to get her shallow breathing under control through trembling lips. The hateful, loathsome, weakness-indicating tears sting at her eyes, and she blinks furiously so that they go away.

_It's all wrong. _Quinn knows she doesn't have to worry about any rumors, having terrified those freshmen into dispelling them, but it's a hollow victory. Not only are all of her chances of anything remotely good with Rachel in the toilet, but Quinn's also to blame for her breakup with Finn. It's all wrong. She doesn't need another reason for Rachel to hate her, on top of _everything _she's ever done to the poor girl, but she's gone and fucked with Rachel's life again anyway. It's like Quinn hurts her whether or not she tries.

"Fuck," she growls, the frustrated and desperate sound low in her throat. On top of everything else, she just _had _to tear those other girls down with a homophobic remark, didn't she. Every time her contrived viciousness includes homophobia, it adds another layer to her security in never being suspected, but at what price? Her respect for herself always drops significantly when she uses "gay" or "lesbian" derogatorily in conversation. It's good for bolstering her heterosexual reputation, but is it really _necessary_?

"Fuck," she repeats, getting abruptly to her feet and brushing off her red skirt in irritation. She has five minutes before the first bell and here she is lagging in a deserted locker room, crying and feeling sorry for herself. She has to face the school and the day sometime. She has to face Rachel sometime.

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><p>By third period Quinn hasn't seen Rachel at all. She supposes morosely that the brunette has every right to avoid Quinn, but she at least hoped that she would be able to <em>see <em>her. Not that she's actively seeking Rachel out, either, because she is positively dreading having to have that inevitable conversation. Seeing the hurt and complete loss of trust in Rachel's eyes. Apologizing sheepishly and knowing that she won't get a definite answer of forgiveness in return (fat chance of that happening). No, she's revolted at the thought of that conversation, but somehow her instincts are still feeling gloomy that Rachel isn't around. It's pathetic, is what it is.

She rounds the corner of the west wing hallway by the gym, dragging her feet on her way to third period Honors History. It's the first class of three that she and Rachel share together during the day. Inside, Quinn battles with her dread of having to face Rachel and not knowing what to say, and her urge to see her and be around her and see if she's okay. As the two conflict in her guts, the outcome isn't any resolution of any kind, one way or the other. She just feels slightly ill.

Off to her right, leaning against some lockers, Quinn sees one of the freshman girls from earlier that morning, talking animatedly with two others, one with the coveted uniform and one without. She eyes the group for a second as she walks. If anything else had spread about this alleged Finn-Rachel-Quinn love triangle, she would have heard about it by now. It's most likely that those girls left the locker room and did not spread that rumor at all, and if they heard it anywhere, dismissed it as a crock of bullshit (before moving on to bigger and better dirt about so-and-so's genital warts scare). Quinn smirks to herself; it just goes to show that if you use enough intimidation, anything can be accomplished.

It's a hard philosophy to let go of and she knows it.

When Quinn reaches her classroom, she finds that Rachel's not there. She stands in the doorway stupidly for a second, scanning the room for the petite brunette that she's come to be able to single out in a flash. But she's simply not there.

It's only when the teacher clears his throat behind Quinn, unable to get through with her blocking the way, that she shakes herself from her fog and takes a seat. She sits there, puzzled. As the teacher, a middle-aged man with his polo shirt tucked into his khakis, begins to take attendance, Quinn pulls out her phone under her desk and flips it open. Santana is the only one she trusts to text about this. She doesn't know why she's trusting her dark-haired rival, but after this weekend Quinn has an indistinct impression that something's changed.

_did you hear about rachel and finn? & have you seen rachel at all?_

Quinn's phone vibrates with a response in a minute.

_yeah heard they split but dnt know why. & i think berrys out "sick"_

Quinn sighs. If Santana Lopez doesn't know the dirt about something then it must be really hush-hush. She thinks again, though, of the bullshit rumor the freshman Cheerios had got their hands on, only a few degrees away from Finn himself. But no, that one was… well, bullshit.

_i cornered some cheergrunts gossiping about it this morning, said they heard finn said it was my fault_

It's nothing, it shouldn't mean anything, but this stupid little weed of a rumor Quinn stamped out a few hours ago keeps nagging at her in the back of her mind. What the hell could it mean, and why would Finn say something like that? She's snapped from her thoughts by her phone vibrating in response. Flipping it open, Quinn reads:

_idk q, finncests a moron but hes just as much of a jerk. i dont have any problem believing he'd blame getting dumped on some1 else_

Huffing from frustration, Quinn quickly types a response on the keypad.

_i just wonder if maybe it's true w/o me even knowing it_

This time she has to wait several minutes for a response, her blank gaze boring into the blackboard as she feigns attention to the teacher's lesson. Finally, her phone buzzes.

_all i know is that if it was me id feel like finn owed me a huge fucking explanation, you know?_

Quinn stares at the tiny pixilated words on the screen for a few seconds before snapping the device shut. For the rest of the period, her mind swims unblinkingly through the drone about her of _The Battle of Gettysburg_ and _The Emancipation Proclamation_, just to rest restlessly among troubled thoughts of Finn, Rachel… Finn's locker room gossip; Rachel's wounded eyes.

_If it was me I'd feel like Finn owed me a huge fucking explanation._


	12. Chapter 12: The Risers

_**Author's Note**: Can I just say how much fun I have writing dialogue for Santana? and IF I UPLOAD THIS CHAPTER WILL YOU PLEASE LEAVE ME REVIEWS AND TELL ME ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS YEESH HOW MUCH DOES A GIRL HAVE TO BEG_

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><p>Quinn sits through Glee Club practice placidly enough. She sways in the background and moves her lips, like always, lost in thought. She bites her tongue and stays quiet. The entire time, however, something brews in her, building and compounding like hot bricks. Bubbling. Growing. <em>Gnawing <em>at her. At four thirty practice is called to an end, and before anyone even begins to pack up, she bursts.

"Finn."

Her voice is loud, and it dovetails across the room to its desired target. Finn looks up stupidly, and as their eyes lock, the others quiet down a bit and look around, wondering what's going on.

"I've got a bone to pick with you."

The others hardly move. They're like extras waiting for their cue, understanding the stilled charge to the air as their signal that a bigger scene is being played. Or maybe it's just that Quinn Fabray has spoken up, and Quinn Fabray hardly ever speaks up in Glee Club - unless it's to be a vindictive bitch, isn't it? "Oh, hold up, girl," Mercedes murmurs, putting a hand on Tina's arm as the other girl shoulders her bag and makes to leave. "I think we might want to see this."

"What do you want, Quinn," Finn responds, hardly bothering to hide his exasperation.

Everyone is staring at Quinn. But these aren't those invasive, gossiping gazes that frighten her so. They're all just holding their breath to see what she'll do next, because they can see one hell of a challenge in her narrowed hazel eyes. She knows they can.

"I want you to explain to me what the _fuck _you're doing," she says deliberately.

"What do you-"

"You're spreading rumors like a little bitch," she interrupts firmly, blood pounding in her ears and her fingertips and the pulp of her teeth. At least three jaws in the room drop. _Oh my god _glances are exchanged.

Finn, for his part, slowly turns red as he scowls. His face takes on that shining, meaty, dark pink hue that it always does when he strains to hit a high note - no, scratch that, _any _note - in a song. It's always reminded Quinn of the way a child's face looks when he's throwing a tantrum. She supposes with some grim amusement that that's what's going to happen.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snaps, getting to his feet. "I never spread any rumors." He and Quinn are still on opposite sides of the room.

She halves the distance between them with several careful, measured steps. The tactic of slowly getting closer that she'd employed that morning with the cheergrunts, the tactic of intimidation that always worked so well; Quinn doesn't know how much longer she can keep up the self control necessary to use those old familiar bullying tactics. It might just slip and she might just start raising her voice, because Finn is _that _fucking thick.

"Why, then," she ekes out through gritted teeth, feet still bringing her forward inch by inch, "did I hear from a couple of _freshmen _that you've said I broke up you and Rachel, hm?"

Finn glowers at the linoleum in the heavy silence, and someone - Puck, maybe - pervades it with a low whistle. Quinn doesn't have to look over to her right at her audience of peers on the risers - like spectators at a coliseum - to know their eyes have all gone wide as dinner plates. These kids, they might pretend to be different, to be above high school's pettiness by ritual of being crushed below it, but just like everyone else they grow ravenous and rapt when rendered observers of drama. Quinn knows it. From ages eleven to twenty-two they live for drama.

And today they won't be disappointed.

"Answer me," she demands, the blood in her brain pulsing heatedly. She hates for the life of her these public confrontations, hates letting anyone see her dirty laundry, any sliver of weakness or vulnerability. But fucking Christ, today she just can't keep it in.

"Well you did," Finn mutters, almost inaudibly.

"Excuse me?"

"I said you _did_," he repeats, loudly this time, pursing his lips into a thin line. "If it weren't for you sticking your neck in and fucking everything up me and Rachel would still be fine."

"What are you talking about?" Quinn spits back, that fiercely loyal anger springing back unbidden. "All I did was be her friend, you moron. God forbid Rachel actually has a _life _aside from you."

"You were trying to take her away from me!" Finn explodes, heavy hands flying into the air. In the immediate ugly, uneasy silence, Quinn is suddenly doused head to foot in a flash of déjà vu that feels like a shock of cold water. That confrontation with Finn in the choir room last year, when he found out it was Puck who got Quinn pregnant. She stares at him and feels a stab of fear, but then she realizes it's only back then that she was afraid of Finn. Right now it's the implications of his words, and the entire room of people who heard it.

"Oh my god." That's Kurt's whisper, she can tell enough, through the static crackling in her ears and the redness creeping up from her shoulder blades to her cheekbones. Quinn wants to fire back at Finn, to defend herself, but all she can do is move her mouth soundlessly in wordless fury and crippling fear.

"That's bullshit," she finally manages to croak, and is pleased to hear her voice has retained some of its bite.

"It's not," Finn retorts, his face the color of a tomato, "and you know it. This whole time- "

"How fucking insecure- " Quinn interrupts, but she too is cut off.

"Hold it!" Santana steps nimbly from the first riser to the linoleum between Finn and Quinn. Quinn had forgotten she was there. The latina turns and rounds on Finn.

"Look at me, Lurch," she hisses, her fists clenching and unclenching down at her sides. Finn scowls down at her. "Why don't you grow some goddamn testes and quit blaming your breakup on my friend Q over there.

"She- " he begins to protest, gesturing around Santana's shoulder.

"Let me speak, you selfish sack of smegma." A couple of awestruck murmurs are heard from the spectators; several people stifle giggles. Quinn just watches, feeling it best to hold her silence, as Finn damn near _purples _and Santana continues.

"Quit your pouting like a god damn three year old and take your breakup like a _man_." The fired up brunette glares unflinchingly into Finn's maddened, squinty eyes. "Just because Jewfasa didn't want to hop on your pencil dick doesn't mean there's anything wrong with her or anyone else who's been close enough to be revolted by it. Maybe you just suck at being a boyfriend almost as badly as you suck at not hitting your fivehead on tree branches and dislodging baby birds from their nests."

Finn's lip curls as the others up on the risers buzz excitedly; to Quinn he looks like one of her uncle Grant's snarling pitbulls. But if he's going to lash out and say anything he keeps silent as Santana goes on, her voice dropping lower as her eyes narrow.

"What really tickles _my _fucking pickle is how you try to displace any of the blame from you by insinuating that the two most frigid girls in this school are lezzing out together behind your massive back. Because that's the way it came across to _me_, and if so, I've just gotta say _bravo_." Santana purses her lips scornfully and brings her hands together in a derisive slow clap. "Really fucking well done. Way to cook up the most believable rumor since Lauren Zises' five-year pregnancy went around the gossip mill here last April. You know, it's really believable when you incriminate the most boy-crazy twelve year old around and Michelle Bachmann herself." She finishes by looking behind her and gesturing to Quinn. Quinn had been so caught up in watching Santana tear Finn down piece by piece that she almost forgot she had anything to do with this herself. She merely chews her lip and stares at Finn, arms crossed austerely over the WMHS logo on her chest.

One thing Quinn notices is that no one is staring at her. The hornet-like buzz of eyes that had stung her skin when Finn first burst with his Sapphic-tinged accusation is gone. The déjà vu is gone too. Everyone stares at Santana and Finn; Kurt's hand lies delicately on his mouth, just below wide eyes; Tina's eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into her hairline; Brittany stares up at Santana from her chair as though hypnotized; only Mercedes and Puck steal glances at Quinn, but when they look at her it's as though their expressions are pitying her for having to be caught up in this shitshow of Finn's.

Finn, for his part, says nothing. Santana cocks her head at him expectantly, inviting a challenge, but he doesn't bother fighting that losing battle. Instead he just glowers at her, breathing like an angry bull.

"Yeah," Santana says dismissively, "I didn't think you had anything to back up that bullshit with." With that, she turns from him calmly and picks her way back to her seat next to Brittany on the risers. Quinn is impressed by the way the brunette ignores the stunned gazes of the other Glee clubbers, who still stand about frozen as though waiting to see if anything else will happen. Even Finn stands motionless for a second or two, keeping completely still except for his heaving chest and grinding jaw. As Santana bends over her purse, casually rummaging around and making to leave, Finn suddenly kicks out at a nearby chair, sending it clattering loudly on its side across the floor. He grabs his backpack with one hand and wordlessly stomps out, face like a thundercloud.

As soon as he exits the room it's like the spell is broken. The others, slowly at first, start to move again, packing up their things to leave this time for real. Santana straightens up, Brittany next to her shoulders her bag, and Quinn haltingly creeps over to them.

"Hey."

Santana looks up distractedly. "Hey," she says neutrally. Brittany echoes agreeably.

"I, uh…" Quinn stalls a bit, still shaken up. "Thanks for that."

It's silent between them for a few moments, awkwardly so. The gossip and the chatter around them swirls comfortably, unaffected, as Santana's eyes flit warily up and down Quinn's lithe frame. Finally,

"Don't mention it," the brunette says firmly, her ponytail bobbing from side to side. "Finn's a worthless pile of gangrenous limbs and what he was saying about you was just plain shitty. He royally pissed me off, you know?"

"Besides," Brittany pipes up, bumping hips with Santana, "what are friends for?"

Santana looks at Brittany, who gives her an encouraging smile, and finally nods grudgingly. Quinn is sort of touched. She knows how hard it is for her latina friend to admit to doing nice things for other people, or to show that she has feelings at all. When it comes down to it, Quinn does know that while Santana chewed Finn out herself because his allegations hit close to home, she also did it because some sliver inside _does _give a shit about Quinn.

"I really owe you one," Quinn murmurs.

Santana gives a humorless, tight-lipped smile. "Let's hope it never comes to that," she replies. Brittany nods gravely and Quinn regards them both carefully. She can't tell whether or not her friends have guessed her secret, or whether or not she's ready to tell them, but she does know that they've got more in common here than any of them will come right out and admit. All three of them know how valuable and how fragile a good reputation is, and Quinn just has this gut feeling that after all they've been through together any one of them would stick out her neck for the other one. They still care about each other. They still _get_ each other. And who knows, Quinn thinks, maybe there's a good chance they could go back to being the Unholy Trinity again.

Brittany, Santana, and Quinn all leave the empty choir room and head out to the parking lot. They walk together in silence, but it's not awkward; each of the girls is absorbed in her own thoughts. When they part ways, Quinn murmurs her goodbye as the other two get in Santana's car.

"Hey, Q."

Quinn, standing a short distance away at her driver's side door as she digs in her bag for her keys, turns back around. The sunlight glinting off Santana's silver Lexus nearly blinds her.

"You go over to Berry's and make sure she's doing alright, okay?"

Another heavy silence hangs in the air as Quinn stares at Santana, her deadly serious face poking out from the open driver's side window. After a moment or two, without even thinking, Quinn opens her mouth.

"Yeah," she replies hoarsely, "I will."

"Good." The brunette nods succinctly, causing her dark ponytail to wag back and forth. "I'll see you tomorrow." Brittany waves and the car peals out of the parking lot, leaving Quinn alone.

She finally finds her keys and heaves her backpack, her duffel bag, and her body into the car. Before she even knows what her body is doing, the ignition has been started and the car eases out of the parking lot. Against her better judgment, Quinn's instincts are guiding her hands and feet and driving her to Rachel's, keeping her equally as automatic promise to Santana.

That anxiety from before third period History flares back like a forgotten, purpling and yellowing bruise poked or prodded.


	13. Chapter 13: The Vanity

_**Author's Note**: Okay wow I'm REALLY sorry I cut this chapter off so horribly but the "confrontation chapter" was twice this long and I wanted to make it into 2 so you guys could at least have something to read while I finish this scene. Keep up with the reviews, let me know what you think, what you want to happen, etc.!_

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><p>Quinn Fabray doesn't need another reason to get slushied again. Ever. She's known all along that it was a baptism she didn't want to endure, but after it <em>did <em>happen to her it only tripled that conviction.

She'll never forget that half hour she'd spent in the girls' locker room.

As soon as the initial shock of purple ice went from numb to freezing, Quinn bolted gracelessly down the hallways towards the gym, completely bypassing her fifth hour class. She may not even remember which class it was that she had fifth hour last year, what pointless subject matter she missed as she ducked around the deserted gym lockers, but she does remember sharp as a thumbtack exactly what color bra she was wearing: lavender, like the slithering ice that only made the fabric darker in the sparse spots where it dripped. When she got to the locker room she immediately tore off her dripping uniform top like it was aflame and meticulously, obsessively, scrubbed off her head and shoulders with a gym towel until she was clean.

As Quinn stood alone in a shower stall, stripped to her underwear and shivering, she felt two things simultaneously. The first she knows she felt: a runaway glob of grape slush fell from her hair onto her bare shoulder, trickling agonizingly down her back. A spot she'd missed on a place she couldn't reach, slipping down her skin, mocking her with a reminder of what she couldn't control. The cheap fluorescent lights hummed and flickered faintly. The runner of ice hit a particularly sensitive swatch of skin on her lower back and she felt it, that, and the _other _thing too, and she gasped; for a second there she thought that she felt her baby _kick_. It couldn't have happened, she wasn't even far enough along to show yet, but still the phantom movement was there all the same.

All at once everything hit her like she was standing at the mouth of a hotel's laundry chute on cleaning day. _Whoosh_. There went the air in her lungs. She was pregnant, she was fucking _pregnant_, and she couldn't even dodge the witch hunt that she'd hoped wouldn't come along with it. To think that, though, was pretty damn stupid. Thinking that this wouldn't happen was as foolhardy as thinking hooking up with a guy would somehow miraculously convert her to heterosexuality. But no, here she was knocked up, just as flamingly gay as ever, and unable to keep herself safe and above public ridicule. If she couldn't even protect herself, how could she ever protect a baby? Quinn couldn't even manage to look after herself, regardless of how hard she tried, and that hopeless, worthless feeling just _slammed _into her.

Mentally, it floored her. Physically, on the outside, Quinn just stood there motionlessly and bit her lip at the tiled wall. Her tendency to do this with her emotions, her tendency to have a hollow and unresponsive outward reaction, gave those around her the tendency to really hate her.

Ironic how she was acting hollow when, in the literal sense, she was anything _but_. A sudden bark of laughter, mirthless and a little manic sounding, escaped from her throat before she could stop it. The unheeded sound scared her a little bit; there was nothing even remotely funny about it.

Twenty minutes later Quinn reemerged fresh and perfectly cleaned up from the locker room, coiled as tight as a steel spring but meticulously composed right down to her heels. No one would have been able to tell any difference between pre-and-post-slushie Quinn Fabray - that is, unless they paid particularly close attention to her eyes, which darted around a bit more quickly. But no one ever really did. Then again… Rachel Berry popped into her mind, that girl who always stared unflinchingly right into Quinn's eyes even though she looked a little frightened; frightened that saying the wrong thing might earn her a corn syrup baptism the next day, most likely, but Rachel spoke unabashedly all the same.

Still…

No, Rachel Berry might have been one of those victims at school who could _stand _to be so, who could handle the slushies - whether from stronger constitution or acquiescence to punishment or whatever - but Quinn was not one of them. She couldn't go through it again, for her own sake and for her baby's, and she wouldn't. She had to stay above it, and it was a vow she made right then and there. Never again.

That's why Quinn fights tooth and nail against anything that could even give _breath _to a rumor. It's why she monitors the gossip mill like a hawk, why she tosses out homophobic remarks like they're the candy she throws from the Cheerios float in the McKinley Homecoming Parade. It's why she pushed Rachel away. Not only does Quinn need another reason to get kicked out again like she needs a nail her eye, but she also does not need another reason to get ostracized at her school. _Never again_. It's why she keeps her secret close, like a harbored criminal.

The light turns green, though, and Quinn rouses herself from thinking about it and steps on the gas.

A few minutes later Quinn stands on Rachel's doorstep, full of a million worrisome little insecurities that she is sick of feeling. Had Rachel watched her drive up and get out of the car? Would she even answer the door? If not, are either of her dads home, and will Quinn have to meet them? She's sweating already, just like the last time she stood on this porch, but this time it's a bitter and cloying tasting thing and it's much, much worse. Still, she forces herself to rationalize that it's just a doorbell and it's just a normal fucking social interaction, and she steels herself, and she rings it.

The bright, coppery sound echoes faintly, and Quinn holds her breath. There's silence, stillness, and then the slight shuffling of feet.

"Who is it?" a high, musical voice calls out. It's unmistakably Rachel, colored tired, wary, and slightly dejected. Quinn doesn't so much worry that she can tell so much from three short words and syllables, but she _is _overcome by a wildly irrational moment of panic that Rachel won't open the door for her.

"Uh…" Quinn falters. "Delivery?" she calls back weakly. _Oh god_. She immediately wants to hit herself.

The door opens and Quinn finds herself face to face with Rachel. The brunette, dressed in a simple blue sweater and khakis, indeed looks all parts tired, wary, and dejected as Quinn had instinctively guessed, but upon pulling the door open and finding Quinn, surprise now figures in.

They stare at one another for several seconds. "…Hey," Quinn says lamely, offering a sheepish smile.

Rachel's eyes are still wide from being caught off guard. Her hand behind her twists the doorknob back and forth absently. "Quinn, ah…" she says slowly, puzzled. "Wh-why did you announce yourself as a delivery?"

Quinn fishes in her bag and pulls out the tube of mascara, color seeping into her face as she holds it up. "I, uh…" she mumbles. _God _they are so awkward with one another. "I'm bringing this back. You left it at my house."

She holds it her extended hand, waiting for Rachel to take it, but Rachel doesn't. The brunette just stands within the doorframe, hands clasped in front of her, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She stares at Quinn, and aside from an impression of expecting _something_, there's nothing Quinn can read in her gaze. Maybe hesitance, but that's about it. Too inscrutable. Quinn had hoped Rachel would accept the mascara and invite her in, but of course she wouldn't make this easy. The blonde sighs and lets her arm fall stiffly to her side.

"This thing was the best plot device I could find," she admits, eyes sweeping the well-painted steps. "I needed an excuse to come over here and talk to you, and I worried that without it this door wouldn't open for me. So here." Looking Rachel straight in the eye, she gently thrusts out the clammy hand holding the mascara. "Here's back my flimsy excuse to come over and act with some basic decency. I shouldn't need it."

Again Rachel doesn't reach out and take it. She continues to stand there motionlessly, staring at Quinn appraisingly (won't she do _anything _else?). But at last, she relaxes her stiff posture. "Oh, Quinn," she sighs (is it with fondness? exasperation? both?) and takes the blonde by that outstretched hand - mascara, fingers, and all - and tugs her inside.

Rachel is silent - uncharacteristically so - as she leads Quinn upstairs. The cheerleader follows behind equally as mutely, chastising herself for being so transfixed on the skin contact from a minute ago but remaining transfixed all the same. That worrisome jolt of contact; was the prickle from normal static, or was Quinn just making it up in her head? It surprised her, once they'd started up the stairs, to find that she was no longer holding the mascara. Too busy swooning over a quick second of meaningless hand holding to even notice the transfer (really, given the present circumstances it's utterly ridiculous and so out of context that it's not even funny). _Jesus_. When they reach the landing and start down the hallway Quinn tries to flush the fixation out of her head and plan out her apology, but that doesn't even work.

It's not until her host clears her throat by her bedroom door that Quinn realizes she'd been lingering by a family portrait, an identical Rachel Berry in miniature grinning toothily from her dad's lap. Were she only here under different circumstances Quinn could look longer at these pictures, melt over the cuteness, and laugh at them with Rachel. Instead, she scuttles - chastised - a bit gracelessly to catch up. God, is she skittish now. Rachel seems to notice, because she eyes Quinn curiously as the blonde ducks into the room.

The first thing that strikes Quinn about Rachel's room is how eerily close it is to how she'd pictured it. The space is extremely tidy, prim, and pastel. There's a vanity across from the bed (salmon-colored quilt and pillowcase, with cream-colored latticework lace), an elliptical machine in the corner, and a shelf full of trophies and medals of all shapes and sizes on the far wall. Quinn moves absently towards the shelf of trophies to look at them, imagining "Most Talented Toddler" awards among them and feeling utterly charmed.

"So, Quinn," Rachel says from behind her, and Quinn stops short. She's not here to look around; although, in the back of her mind somewhere, Quinn wants to store away these little details while she can since she figures she won't be welcome back here another time.

"Right," Quinn says firmly, interrupting her own thoughts. Might as well get on with it and get it over with, even while they're both still standing. "Listen, about last Friday night." Rachel licks her lips warily, and Quinn plows ahead.

"I know you probably don't want to talk to me after what happened, and I don't blame you, but I just want to let you know that I'm really sorry. I was completely out of line and I wish I'd never said what I said." Quinn blows a jet of air through her lips, looks up at the ceiling (she can't look at Rachel during this), and continues. "I don't want to make any excuses about the way I behaved, but I _was _pretty drunk. And if it makes you feel any better, Puck, Santana _and _my mom got the bitch treatment in addition to you and Finn that night. I just wasn't myself."

"Well, you know what they say," Rachel comments in a low voice, her mouth in a thin line, and Quinn looks back to her again. "_In vino veritas_."

"What?"

Rachel shakes her head. "Nothing. I'm sure you had your reasons to be cross with all those other people, though. Santana tends to antagonize you, and I don't want to presume you're on the best of terms with your mom."

"I-"

"Besides," Rachel interrupts, "you _do _have a tendency to lash out at others. I'm not sure you weren't in character after all." There she is again, looking Quinn right in the eye. She doesn't look scared of slushies anymore, though. Now she just looks sad.

"Rachel, I'm sorry," Quinn says simply. She tries to keep the plaintive lilt from her voice. "I wish I could explain it."

"I can," Rachel says curtly, and in a split second Quinn's heart flies up to her throat. _Does she know? Has she guessed_? The blonde smoothes her polyester skirt with trembling hands, waiting for the condemnation. The crucifixion.

"I suppose it was entirely too foolish of me to think that I could be friends with the captain of the Cheerios and everything could be easy and normal," Rachel continues. She walks over to the vanity and begins to pick up things and then put them back down, turn them over, generally fidget with the headbands and astringent pads with her back to Quinn. Her face, though, is still visible in the mirror's reflection - her brow is clouded and expression pinched. "Of course you would be ashamed to be seen with me, wouldn't you? I know Finn always was, but for some reason I never expected it with you."

Quinn opens her mouth and then closes again. Relief that her sexuality is still a secret floods through her veins, but the minor victory is bittersweet at best. It breaks her heart to hear Rachel say these other things, but what can she say? The truth? What Rachel said is half the truth already, really. All Quinn can bring herself to do is chew on the slick, tender flesh inside of her mouth and wait for Rachel to tell her to get out.

Rachel, over at the vanity, bows her head and picks up a bottle of lotion. She absently pushes the pump and rubs the lotion into her hands, meticulously working and reworking the stuff into her skin with a combination, Quinn observes, of worry and heavy habit. It reminds Quinn, oddly enough, of the Shakespeare scene they'd studied last year in Honors English (was that the fifth period class?) when Lady Macbeth had wrung her hands obsessively to wash them of some imagined spot of evil. What is Rachel wringing her hands of?

"It really hurt, Quinn," Rachel admits, her voice so low it's almost unintelligible. The lotion, of course. A well-practiced defense against man hands.

Quinn grits her teeth in frustration and, before she can stop herself, strides over to Rachel.

"Stop it, Rachel," she huffs in a jumbled rush, reaching out and grabbing the moving knot of the brunette's hands. "Just stop it for a second, would you?" Rachel whirls around, and for the second time in ten minutes gazes at Quinn in wordless surprise. Quinn, having completely lost control of her own inhibitions, gently wrenches Rachel's hands apart and holds each of them at shoulder level.

"There's nothing wrong with your hands," she says hotly. "There's nothing wrong with any part of you, don't you get it? You haven't got man hands and you're nothing to be ashamed of. It's me that's fucked up, Rachel, it's my fault." Her gaze bores into Rachel with trademark intensity. "I just get so freaked out when someone really great like you gets close to me. What if you realize how awful I really am and then you leave, like everyone else…"

Quinn trails off, realizing the awkward proximity of hers and Rachel's bodies. She stands there, _completely _up in the brunette's personal space, holding the other girl by the hands like a maniac. Rachel, for her part, bites her lip and gazes up at Quinn with wide, clear brown eyes.

"Sorry," Quinn mutters, mortified by her outburst, and drops Rachel's hands.

"Come here," Rachel sighs, using the same tone of voice as when she'd led Quinn inside, and reclaims the blonde's right hand with her left. She pulls the blonde over to the bed and prompts her to sit, dropping down beside her.

"I want you to stop doing that," she says firmly.

"What, molesting your personal bubble and manhandling you?" Quinn grumbles, still fuming with herself.

"_No_. I want you to quit putting yourself down. It's one thing to flare up when I do so, but to then turn around and immediately berate yourself is another thing entirely. Yes, you made a mistake, but," - with this she softens and tucks a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear - "but everyone does. This continual self-deprecation act is getting old. It's really inconsistent with how terrific of a person you are."

Quinn sighs. "I'm really not, though…"

Rachel purses her lips in impatience. "I asked you to _stop_. Really, Quinn, the only way I'm going to forgive you is if you quit moping around playing the villain. It's endlessly frustrating."

"You're…" For a moment Quinn forgets herself again, and her head snaps up, revealing wide hazel eyes. "You're going to forgive me?"

Rachel heaves a sigh and smiles at Quinn with that now familiar mixture of fondness and exasperation. "Is that really so hard to believe? Yes, what happened at that party hurt my feelings, but I've already told you that I'm not the type of girl that holds grudges. In this case it's not just because I'm desperate to make and keep friends, either; I _know _you're sorry, Quinn, and that's half the battle. I also know that you may not have had the best luck with some of the people in your life that you cared about as far as consistency goes, but as long as you're not lashing out at me and pushing me away I want to prove that you've only had a streak of rotten luck and you can rely on me not to ditch you, because the _last _thing I know is that beneath that heavy suit of armor you're really a great person and I want to stay friends with you." She finishes her long-winded speech by gazing down at the quilt sheepishly, as though she thinks she's said too much. Still, while Quinn struggles to shake a response from her stunned skull, Rachel looks back up at her warmly.

"You, ah," Quinn says shakily, at a loss for words, "You sure know a lot, don't you?" With that, she finally lets herself think about the implication of Rachel's vague but pointed words, about Rachel's heartfelt vow against being absent and about those who are. She finally lets herself think of both Russel and Beth (though it's not exactly a choice) and an onslaught of salty tears spring unwanted to her eyes. Humiliated again, Quinn turns away from Rachel and blinks furiously, hoping the brunette doesn't notice her show of weakness. Thinking that, though, is decidedly pretty foolish (Quinn tries to fool herself quite a bit). Rachel doesn't miss much.

"Come here, silly," the brunette breathes gently, putting an arm around her friend and pulling the helpless blonde close to her. Quinn, too weak and unmotivated to resist, allows herself to be hugged tight to Rachel's shoulder and rubbed on the back.

With her tear streaked face buried in Rachel's shoulder, Quinn hears the petite brunette's comforting tone as though through a tunnel. "You're just about the proudest person I've ever met," she murmurs, her breath tickling the fine blonde hairs around Quinn's ear. "What am I going to do with you." But Quinn's not listening. She hasn't been this physically close to another female person in years - she hadn't allowed herself the opportunity. But now, oh now her face is enmeshed in the fabric of Rachel's clothes and the feel of her soft hair, and that paired with the intimate scents of fresh fabric softener and melon shampoo are enough to bring a hot blush to Quinn's damp cheeks.

Still, as Rachel's palm moves in a slow circular pattern on Quinn's back, the cheerleader feels a sense of calm and comfort that is nearly completely alien to her. Sure, the familiar insecurity that comes with this proximity to a girl is still there under the surface, but the soothing feeling of being in Rachel's arms subdues it substantially. It also placates the crying, which Quinn had almost forgotten in her fervor over Rachel's feminine pheromones (which is almost more ridiculous than her crying in the first place). The inexplicable tangle of emotions that wormed their way into Quinn at the reminder of Beth and Russel pulse a bit, inflamed by the gravity of Rachel's heartfelt promise, but after a minute the sudden sadness ebbs.

It's funny, usually the crying jags last twice as long when Quinn is at home in the shower or under her sheets.


	14. Chapter 14: The Bed

_**Author's Note**: Okay, here's part 2 of the "confrontation scene". Some of you wanted more dialogue/interaction between our two lovely ladies, so here goes it! As always, give me your comments/criticism/suggestions! _  
><em>p.S. did anyone actually look up what "in vino veritas" means?<em>

* * *

><p>Once Quinn has worked the fit of melancholy from her system, she clumsily extracts herself from Rachel's embrace and props herself up back into a sitting position. Rachel bites her lip and smiles at her friend with a hint of hesitancy - it occurs to Quinn that the brunette is unused to comforting friends like this, not really having had any, and must be self-conscious about whether or not she excelled at it (like everything else she does). So Quinn offers a grateful smile as she hastily wipes the remaining wetness from her cheeks.<p>

"God, look at me," she chuckles thickly, looking down at the absently twisting fingers clasped in her lap. "Only I would come over to someone's house to apologize and end up crying all over their nice sweater and making everything about me. I'm so…" Quinn looks up at Rachel and catches the brunette's sharp, warning gaze. _Right_. Enough with the lame self-deprecation. It's something she's going to work on, for Rachel.

"I'm so… _smart _and _gorgeous_," Quinn finishes facetiously, a cheeky grin spreading irrepressibly across her mouth. It's crazy, she already feels worlds better than just ten minutes earlier; the remaining traces of guilt and miserable nostalgia are fading fast.

"Well, I'll give you smart, Ms. Honor Roll," Rachel says airily, her dark eyes twinkling like a pair of stars. "But don't get ahead of yourself."

"Oh yeah?" Quinn scoffs, slugging the brunette on the shoulder gently. It's lucky she _is _smart, or else Quinn might have almost been fooled into thinking she caught a hint of flirtatiousness in Rachel's tone. But no, they're just goofing around. And Quinn's got to say, simply joking around back and forth like this with her friend is about the best feeling in the world right now. Horribly enough, Quinn doesn't feel relaxed in the company of others very often. With Rachel, however, she feels comfortable and just plain glad to have a close friend with whom she can have fun and let down her walls. The emotional moment just minutes ago is tremendous testament to that.

"Rachel," Quinn says, her tone becoming more serious and thoughtful, "Only you could make saying sorry this easy. How did you get to be such a sweetheart? What's your secret?"

Rachel smiles at Quinn wanly. "Beats me. Just ask all the guys who are lining up to date me."

Quinn frowns. "Come on, what did we just talk about? You're not allowed to talk down about yourself either."

"Sorry." Rachel looks somewhat chastised but can't quite hide the slight eye-roll she does.

Quinn sits for a second, trying to work out which of her feelings is stronger: pity for poor Rachel, or anger with Finn for causing the normally vivacious brunette to be this downcast. Eventually Quinn's profound distaste for Finn and the anger win out. She really is growing to hate the guy more and more each day, how did she ever date him? Couldn't she have found a less annoying beard? But this is about Rachel, and even though Quinn is really testy with Finn she still doesn't _know _what actually went down.

"I, uh," Quinn begins slowly, breaking the silence, "I heard about you and Finn." She tries to ignore the fact that she feels happy about the change of subject; she shouldn't _like _this topic when it's such bad news for Rachel. Still, a small, selfish pocket of her brain keeps voicing inexplicable satisfaction. Quinn keeps it well smothered for Rachel's sake.

"Yes," Rachel replies, "I suppose everyone has. I'm not surprised." Her curt response is hard for Quinn to figure out, as far as the tone goes. It's not especially angry or bitter, and she doesn't seem to be on the verge of tears. Following logic, Quinn had expected a brokenhearted Rachel Berry to be, well… brokenhearted. She'd expected waterworks, drama, everything that comes with an archetypical diva in this situation. This Rachel, however, is subdued; sad, yes, but moreso the type that goes with disappointment. Quinn experiences déjà vu of that day when she'd chased Rachel to the chorus room after talking to Finn.

She wants to ask what happened, but she bites back that instinct to blurt out the question. Instead, she watches Rachel intently, feeling her heart swell with protective pity. "Are you doing okay?" she asks gently, feeling her own brows knit together as she extends a tentative hand and places it on Rachel's shoulder.

Rachel smiles wistfully at Quinn's hand. "Yes, I think I am. I mean, of course I'm sad; Finn meant a lot to me for a long time, but we just weren't good together anymore. It was all for the best, and I'm sure after this initial melancholy I'll make a full and speedy recovery."

"That's good," Quinn says, genuinely glad to hear Rachel's optimism. Her hand is still on the brunette's shoulder, but she doesn't know what to do with it now that it's there. She gives a reassuring squeeze and, feeling foolish, lets her arm fall to her side. "If you want to talk about it, I'll totally listen. And if you don't want to talk, I'll distract you. You know that I'm here for you if you need anything at all. Don't ever hesitate to ask, okay?"

Rachel's deep brown eyes lock Quinn's clear hazel. "I won't," she says softly, almost shyly. "And thank you. You're a good friend."

Quinn holds the eye contact and smiles slowly. Her lips feel like jello.

"I broke up with him, you know," Rachel admits, after a minute of silence. Quinn looks at her, and the brunette continues. "I'm really grateful that you didn't immediately barrage me with requests for details, but I know you must be curious. I know you."

Quinn bites her tongue. She hadn't formed a prediction either way about who broke up with who, but to hear that it was Rachel is still surprising. Her curiosity triples. She sits there next to Rachel on the bed, waiting for the brunette to speak when she's ready.

Rachel, however, stares across the room for a full minute. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, the gears visibly turning in her head. Quinn, in turn, worries that Rachel isn't going to tell her anything after all when at last she hears her friend begin to speak.

"Do you remember when we had that duet together a few months ago, and you asked me that hypothetical question about my dads having a gay child?"

That time when Quinn asked the question as casually as she could and Rachel's hands froze for a moment like a needle skipping on a record. Of course she remembers, she was so damn embarrassed. "Yeah."

If Rachel notices Quinn's curious gaze fixed on her, she doesn't show it. She watches her elliptical machine pensively for a moment before continuing.

"Finn used to ask me questions along that same vein ever since we started dating."

Quinn frowns. "What do you mean?"

Rachel blows a strand of hair out of her eyes, looking disgruntled with the memory. "It wasn't exactly like your question. You were being hypothetical, whereas Finn was… oh, I don't know… Accusatory would be the best word for it." She sighs and looks Quinn in the eye. "You know how ignorant he is about things like that. He sincerely suspected me of homosexuality because of my dads, as though an LGBT-friendly home environment would make such a thing contagious."

"That's so messed up," Quinn says, brow knit again and ponytail shaking to and fro. "Not the idea of you being gay, I mean, or being gay in general," she backpedals awkwardly, "Just the fact that Finn would say that. You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean." Rachel nods reassuringly. "I never pegged you as a homophobe, regardless of how others may stereotype you."

"Just like Finn stereotyped you," Quinn grumbles, feeling her irritation with him reaching new depths. The fact that he's using homosexuality as an accusation, that he dares to act like he understands the concept and then shits all over it… no. How dare he. How fucking dare he.

"Oh, but it gets better," Rachel huffs, rolling her eyes again. She keeps doing that - it's cute. "Not only did he suspect me of such no matter _what _I told him, but he also used it as the foundation for other suspicions."

For a moment Quinn doesn't follow. Then, right away, she remembers Finn earlier that day in the choir room.

_You were trying to take her away from me!_

The dots connect very easily. Quinn's mouth falls open.

"He _seriously _thought we…?" she croaks.

"Something along those lines," Rachel replies gravely.

Quinn's head is spinning. She knew Finn hated her relationship with Rachel, even felt jealous, but for all her paranoia she never would have guessed that Finn _actually _thought there was something going on between them. Quinn had assumed his jealousy stemmed from a childish inability to share, and the fact that Quinn took the attention from him to herself in glee club, at the party… It was definitely enough to make the big oaf jealous, but Quinn hadn't known the real reason behind it. Now, it turns out he actually… Quinn gulps hard. If she hadn't chastised those gossiping freshmen and if Santana hadn't publicly shut Finn up, his real, unabridged suspicions may have risen to the surface. Rumors about getting in between Rachel and Finn would have been the least of her problems with rumors about her sexuality flying around. Just thinking about the bullet she dodged makes her shake like a leaf but Quinn can't even begin to fathom how gay Finn thinks she is. Or what he doesn't just think, but _know _about her.

"Are you okay?"

"What?" Quinn swallows again and looks up at Rachel jerkily.

"You look really pale, are you okay?" The brunette eyes Quinn keenly, searching her face.

"Yes," Quinn replies quickly, "Yeah, I'm fine. That's just, er, really surprising. I knew Finn had beef with me but I didn't know it was like that." It's somewhat of an understatement. She's trying not to panic, unsure if she should feel relieved that her trouble with Finn seemed to be nipped in the bud today, or if she should worry that he is a slowly-emerging threat to her secure reputation.

"I really think he was just reacting the same way he would have as if I was getting closer to a male friend, like Puck. When it comes down to it, Finn's pretty insecure, and he can be a real hothead about it. The last straw was the way he blew up at me on Friday."

"What happened on Friday?" Quinn asks quizzically. She doesn't remember any blowup from that night; Finn and Rachel had actually seemed pretty wrapped up in each other most of the time.

"This would have been after you left. No, when you left, because that made it worse."

"Hold on," Quinn interrupts, "I'm not really following."

"Sorry," the brunette sighs. Her expression darkens, and she hesitates for just a moment. "Finn saw you and I sitting with each other at a relatively close proximity and immediately jumped to conclusions. When he approached us and you hastily fled he took it as a signal of guilt. I tried to tell him other wise but he just wouldn't hear it. Then I began to get worried about you because you hadn't come back, and Finn wouldn't release me from his silly tirade of accusations, so…" She turns a faint shade of pink, her eyes dart around searching for something, and then she seems to muster up some righteous indignation from the memory. "So I said," Rachel bursts, incensed, "'Finn Hudson, you get the hell out of my way right now or you and I are through!'"

"Wow," Quinn murmurs, thoroughly stunned. Apparently she'd been completely mistaken about Finn "white knight-ing" at the party. She thought he'd stomped over to stick up for Rachel because he'd seen Quinn yell at her, but evidently he'd seen something else. For a moment Quinn starts to get panicked again - Santana had seen it, _Finn _had seen it too - but no, she tells herself that she's _got _to stop worrying so obsessively about it. Finn's an utterly impotent threat, he'd been dispatched earlier that day. Quinn breathes, and for once in her life tells herself that she shouldn't waste the energy of worrying about this. Feeling strangely zen, she listens as her friend goes on talking full steam ahead.

"He ended up letting me go alright," Rachel continues, waving a hand for emphasis, "Though I think it was more out of surprise than anything. I still broke up with him anyway, as you know, but I waited until the next day when we were both a little more coherent."

"Good idea," Quinn interjects, nodding solemnly. "Some really bad choices can be made under the influence." She's thinking specifically of having hooked up with Puck and having lashed out at Rachel.

"Oh, but I knew I wanted to do it then," Rachel says quickly, eyes widening as she leans towards Quinn. "I just _knew_. I also was pretty distraught at that point because I couldn't find you or reach you, and I knew that if you had been abducted because Finn kept me from going after you I would have _never _forgiven him." Before Quinn can say anything, Rachel eyes her shrewdly. "What happened to you? Where did you go?"

Quinn sighs sheepishly, not exactly proud of how she'd made her friends worry. "I, uh, walked home," she admits, leaving out the part about being sick in a storm drain. "It wasn't far. I then made the brilliant decision to drunkenly yell at my mom."

Rachel gasps theatrically. "Please tell me you didn't!"

"Oh, yes I did."

"No! Are you grounded for life? I really hope you're not breaking any rules being here, because if you get in even worse trouble because of me I won't be-"

"No, no," Quinn interrupts, unable to help smiling at her friend's anxious ramble. "Grounding me would have been too much work for ole Judy. I don't really think she cares enough to punish me. It's kind of cool." Even though she says the words, it doesn't feel very cool.

Rachel frowns. "Well… I'm glad you're not in trouble, then. Though you should be." A giggle escapes her mouth. "If I had a teenage daughter with the audacity to be that rebellious I think she would be locked up in her room for a year!"

Quinn quirks an eyebrow. Before she can stop herself, "You really would have been okay with me being banished and never seeing me again?" _Careful…_

"I don't know, it might actually be an improvement." Rachel's entire face is neutral except for her eyes, which betray her by smiling ever so slightly. Quinn just stares.

"Rachel Barbra Berry, I am speechless."

The shorter girl giggles again, beaming proudly that she could produce such a callously witty quip (she must have picked it up from Quinn, or possibly Santana, although Santana would either mean it or say worse or both). "I told you not to pick on yourself, but no one ever said _I _couldn't pick on _you_."

"Oh, shush, or I'll ground you for a year."


	15. Chapter 15: The Car

_**Author's Note**: You may not believe me, but this chapter IS relatively important in terms of plot advancement, so don't complain too much about how little Faberry there is in this chapter! As usual, leave me any comments, criticism, or suggestions for what you want to happen!_

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><p>Quinn Fabray doesn't need any addictions. She's known it all along, watching other characters in her life dealing with addictions of their own: Puck with the way he can't get enough of sex, Judy Fabray with the way she drains martinis as though the eight-hundred-gallon mark will bring her husband back, and - Quinn hates to put her in this category - Rachel with the way she thrives off of applause. Right now, though, she's thinking in particular of Santana and her coffee addiction.<p>

With the mandatory six a.m. practices six days a week, most of the Cheerios rely heavily on coffee. It gets them through those handsprings without falling asleep mid-leap and breaking their necks (like Felicity Mocker, Cheerios legend/cautionary tale from the class of 2002). Santana, however, takes it to a whole new level.

Quinn sees Santana Lopez as more of a cautionary tale than anything. The blonde cheerleader doesn't worry about breaking her neck; she _does _worry, however, about developing an addiction to a substance that could run her a couple hundred dollars a year. That's at the very least how much Santana spends, Quinn knows that much. Her friend gets a double shot from Starbucks every single day, and with those prices multiplied by the three hundred and sixty-five, well… It's off-putting, to say the least. Quinn, unlike Santana, is a very cost-savvy girl (college is looming closer and closer and closer).

Then there's the matter of transformations of lycanthropian proportions. Or maybe Santana is more like a reverse-Hulk. Either way, before she gets her morning fix the girl is a monster. The rabble at McKinley think she's a nightmare, but they have never seen her at dawn, in the wee hours that only Cheerios are dragged out of their houses. Quinn remembers a day last year when Santana was running too late to practice to get her coffee; suffice to say, four Cheerios quit the squad after that day.

All this runs through Quinn's mind on Tuesday, and she still _is _contemplating going for the espresso machine this morning. It's five forty a.m. and she's sitting at the kitchen counter, duffel bag next to the legs of her stool and purple bags under the miserable hazel of her eyes. This temptation isn't usually a problem for Quinn since her typical bedtime is nine-thirty at night, but last night she'd been up until midnight texting Rachel about Finn and their English assignment and Regionals and whether or not starfish have thoughts. Needless to say, Quinn didn't get nearly enough sleep. The silver java maker leers at her knowingly from the far counter. She's tempted by the caffeine at the very least for the sake of her appearance, which is zombie-like right now at best. But no. Quinn shakes off the thought (and the onset of narcolepsy) with a full-body shudder; that's Santana's vice, and fuck if Quinn's going to fall into the caffeine trap. Speaking of Santana, she's not going to get said caffeine if Brittany doesn't hurry up, and Brittany of all people should know how unbearable -

_Bzzzzz._

Quinn grabs her phone from where it sits right next to her elbow, flipping it open to read the message she just received.

_Brittany: im like a block away come on out_

Heaving a sigh, Quinn hoists herself from the high stool and shoulders her bag as her poor exhausted body laments the loss of sit-down comfort. She heads to the front door, picking up her backpack where it sits on the rug and slipping into her pair of white uniform sneakers for street wear. Their backs are creased from countless days of putting on the shoes on the way out the door without bothering to lace or unlace them.

Every day it's the same damn thing.

Except for today it's not. Today, Quinn's hitching a ride into school with Brittany and Santana because her jeep's check engine light came on yesterday evening, flickering to life on her dashboard with peevish insistency as she drove back from Rachel's house. Judy had told her daughter to leave the car at home today so she could take it in and get it checked out during her lunch break, and Quinn had texted her friends asking for help, and now here she is. She locks the door behind her and jogs out to the curb, where Brittany is waiting in her modest green sedan.

"Good morning, starshine," Brittany chirps as Quinn drops into the passenger's seat, "The earth says hello!"

"What the hell does that mean?" Quinn grumbles, not unkindly, as she struggles with stacking her luggage on the floor between her knees.

Brittany steps on the gas and pulls away from the curb. "It's a song," she says matter-of-factly. "_Good Morning Starshine_, from the totally groovy musical _Hair_. It's a classic, you should totally check it out. I can lend you my dad's record, I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"That's really nice of you, Britt, but I don't have a record player." Quinn stares out the window ambivalently; it's still completely dark out, and all the nice, neat suburban houses that ease by are completely still and undisturbed. Even the streets are void of any other cars. How dreary.

"Hey, Quinn," Brittany pipes up, her tone indicating that _Good Morning Starshine _is old news. "Did you talk to Rachel?" She creeps around a corner slowly; completely unlike her best friend, Brittany drives like a grandma.

Did she talk to Rachel? What kind of question is that? "Uh, yeah," Quinn replies hesitantly.

"Good." Brittany, her eyes locked unwaveringly on the road in front of her, nods in satisfaction.

"Why, what are you, a cop?"

Brittany chuckles. "I wish." This kind of response doesn't even faze Quinn anymore. "But no," the taller blonde continues, "I just know Santana's gonna ask you about it and make sure you did and stuff."

This response, however, does throw Quinn off. "What are you guys, my parents?"

"Do your parents make sure you're being nice to Rachel?"

"Okay shut up, it's not my fault my brain doesn't work this early in the morning." She sighs and rubs her temples, her eyelids feeling heavy and luxurious like a floor-length fur coat. _Don't close them_. "So you're not cops or parents; I didn't think those analogies through too well. What I mean is, why are you guys so concerned?"

Brittany just shrugs, looking somewhat mysterious as she tends to do when there's something going on in her head that an observer is not privy to. "I dunno," she says simply. "Me, personally, I like Rachel and I want her to be friends with us. And, like, you're kind of the Rachel-whisperer."

"Wait, what does-"

"Good fucking morning." The loud call floats in through the sunroof. Quinn looks around, disoriented, and sees out the window that they'd pulled up outside Santana's house and she hadn't even noticed. The brunette in question steps nimbly across her lawn, her smirk obvious even from a distance.

"Blondie, get out of my seat, por favor," Santana says smoothly as she walks up to the passenger's side door, gesturing with the mug in her hand (did her parents buy an espresso maker?) and readjusting her bag's shoulder strap all in one fluid motion. Brittany starts to unbuckle her seatbelt and Quinn touches her hand to stop her.

"Just get in the back," Quinn sighs, "We're gonna be late."

Santana just rolls her eyes and loads herself and her bag into the backseat. As the car pulls away from the curb, she mutters, "Fucking Christ, I can't believe you little Aryan debutantes would do this to me. I feel like a younger and bustier Rosa Parks back here."

"Rosa Parks sat in the front of the bus, dumbass."

"Wait," Brittany pipes up, "how do you know how big her boobs were?"

"Yeah, like once," Santana says dismissively, pushing out her chin. "But before she Rosa-Parked her ass on that spot up front and got thrown in the clink, she sat way back in the shitty Negro section every single day."

Quinn chews on the inside of her mouth to keep from grinning. "Like how you usually sit up here every single day?"

Santana smiles sweetly. "I'm so glad you're taking advantage of those AP history classes you've taken so that you can effectively nitpick a meaningless fucking argument. Your parents must be so proud."

"Victories are hard for me to come by, S, and I take 'em where I can find 'em. Not all of us have the honor and pleasure of verbally castrating Finn Hudson."

Brittany giggles and holds out her hand over and behind her shoulder for Santana to give her a high five.

"Yeah," Santana says smugly, flushing slightly, "that was pretty bitchin', wasn't it? Hey, Q, speaking of the Jolly Salami-Colored Giant…"

"I know what you're gonna ask," Quinn interrupts, "and yeah, me and Rachel made up. Why do you care so much?"

"Santana just wants to see you happy!" Brittany exclaims.

"Shut up, chatterbox," Santana says sharply. Brittany just giggles, and in spite of herself the brunette smiles fondly (albeit ruefully).

"What Britt is saying is that you fuck everything up," she goes on, turning to Quinn.

"That's not what I said!"

"Thanks, S."

"Well, you do!" Santana asserts. "You fuck everything up and push people away, and then you're confused when you're miserable. Me and Britt here know you too well to take it personally, but Rachel is like a fragile little Jewish hummingbird."

"Do you think Rachel talks as fast as a hummingbird's wings go?"

"I'd say sometimes faster, Britt. What I'm trying to say, Q, is that Rachel is a damn good friend to you, and I - we - don't want to see you fuck it all up."

"Plus she makes that angry android look you get go away."

"Yeah, Q, you're about as fun as a leaky tampon when you're all angsty and lonely."

The car rolls to a stop in the McKinley student parking lot. Quinn twists in her seat and looks back and forth from Brittany and Santana's hard-eyed but expectant expressions. They seem to be waiting for her to say something, but Quinn's at a loss. Finally:

"I don't know where I'd be without this tough love from you guys."

Quinn smiles shakily as her two friends beam at her.

"Glad to have you back," Brittany says warmly. Quinn doesn't have to ask what that means; like with most things Brittany says, she just knows.

* * *

><p>"Hello again," Rachel chirps when Quinn drops into her usual seat next to her in glee club.<p>

"Same to you," Quinn replies with a smile. She's glad to see that her friend is so upbeat, especially after this weekend. It's surprising, though; if Quinn didn't know any better, she'd say that Rachel is even happier than she was _before _the weekend's complete shit show. But it's not worth puzzling about, and Quinn just shakes off the curiosity and feels genuinely happy for Rachel. She finds that contentedness after a breakup is an evolved and admirable thing - something she certainly can't see in Finn, that's for sure. He sits up in the very top row glowering, obviously still very visibly upset, but Quinn can't for the life of her find any sympathy - had she any even before then - after what Rachel had told her the day before.

"He doesn't look very happy, does he?"

"Hm?" Quinn's gaze slowly, absently, pivots back to Rachel, who nods back up to her now-ex-boyfriend.

"Finn." Rachel's brows are furrowed as she watches him. "He looks like he would rather ingest a live scorpion than be here. Does he really hate me that much?"

"I think me and our friend Q here might have a bit more to do with that, actually," Santana comments slyly as she sidles past on her way to her seat. Brittany trails close behind.

"What do you mean?" Rachel asks, puzzlement tinged with worry as she twists her neck around to try and harpoon eye contact with the cheerleaders who drop into the seats directly behind her.

Santana leans over Rachel's shoulder, a catlike grin playing around her mouth. "Let's just say our manatee friend won't be causing another stink in here anytime soon. As for his B.O., however…"

"Wha-"

"Yeah," Quinn exhales, "I meant to tell you about that. See, yesterday during practice-"

"May I have everyone's attention!"

All conversations trail off and all eyes swing to the front of the room, where Kurt stands expectantly, his hands clasped together at his belt. Mr. Schuester sits on his stool off to the side, watching Kurt and smiling knowingly.

"As most of you know," he goes on, lips twitching in a barely-suppressed smile, "we're in sore need of new members. Our puny ranks have always needed bolstering, and now that Matt has left it's more important than ever. Luckily, I've been on the prowl, and I've managed to find some new talent that I think will really help us out. Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, rocking on the balls of his feet eagerly, "I'd like you to meet my new friend - Sam Evans!"

A halfhearted and confused smattering of applause breaks out and Quinn - along with everyone else, apparently - finally notices a boy in a letterman jacket standing shyly in the background.

"Hi," he says somewhat breathlessly, flashing a grin and raising one hand in a macho wave as the other buries itself in the boy's back jeans pocket.

"Who is that guy?" Puck says quizzically.

"Dude," Finn whispers loudly, hitting his friend on the chest with the back of his hand, "He's totally on the team with us, dumbass."

"Can he even sing?" Mercedes pipes up, quirking an eyebrow.

Mike Chang cranes his neck. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, he can sing!" Kurt asserts, raising his voice over the reactionary conversation. The new boy - Sam - still smiles, but the expression is weakened and seems somewhat queasy. He looks overwhelmed by all the attention, which is admittedly a little less than encouraging.

"Holy fucking _lips_," Quinn hears Santana murmur from behind her.

"Aside from the color," Brittany observes, "that guy could have stolen Will Smith's mouth."


	16. Chapter 16: The Parking Lot

_**Author's Note:** Sorry about this taking a thousand years to write. Sorry if you hate me after reading it, too. Still, feedback is just as important as ever, if not more!_

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><p>She knows she's not exactly supposed to, but Quinn loves away games. At least, she loves them in comparison to home games. Home games are great and all, with all the energy and a sea of red and white and the faces of proud, familiar parents in the stands, but sometimes it's <em>too much<em>. Not that Quinn doesn't have a fair amount of school spirit; if she didn't have at least a grain of it, she could never handle being a Cheerio in the first place. No, it's just that it's really refreshing cheerleading as the visiting squad, without all of the pressure.

It's a Thursday night and she and the rest of the squad are at St. Bart's football field, waving their pom-poms at the clouds of gnats around the light post that make up McKinley's student section. It's pathetic at best. All it needs is the tumbleweed rolling by.

"They couldn't have at least organized a fucking carpool over here?" Santana growls under her breath from off to Quinn's right, words misting into vapor as she rustles her poms together habitually.

"It's a little late in the game to worry about that," Quinn murmurs, gesturing her head to the scoreboard (fourth quarter with four minutes on the clock) as she inhales a huge gulp of chilly air into her lungs.

"Defense! Defense!" Quinn calls out, punctuating each first syllable with a punch in the air.

"Hold them tight!" the rest of the squad choruses in response, clapping their poms together on each word.

"Push those Chargers!"

"Red and white!"

The call-and-response is recited twice more. After completing the cheer, Santana deflates, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, and it's not a little too late in the game for that?"

The St. Bart's Chargers are leading twenty-seven to seven. It's not hard to see how it would seem useless to cheer at this point, but then again it's only their _job_.

"You girls want to do a pyramid real quick?" Quinn suggests, teeth chattering slightly.

A series of groans, "no"s, and one particular "fuck you" meet her as a response. Quinn just grins slyly. She knows it's far too cold, and the audience is far too pathetic, for them to waste the effort - not to mention Coach Sylvester never lets the Cheerios do anything much more elaborate than callouts at away games anyway for fear of rival plagiarism. Still, she likes giving her squad mates a hard time. Sadistically enough, she gets a little kick out of their misery.

There's a nudge on her lower back from Brittany, who stands directly behind her. "Hey look, it's Rachel!"

"Wh… what?" Quinn's gaze quickly darts all up and down the sparsely occupied bleachers, and sure enough, as Brittany pointed out, there's Rachel. The petite brunette can be seen stepping nimbly down rusty metal stairs on the visitors' side, wide, eager eyes taking in all the action on the field that Quinn knows she doesn't understand a single bit of.

"Hi, Quinn!" she exclaims breathlessly, coming up to the railing and gripping it with her wooly red mittens.

"Hey!" Quinn responds with a grin, taking a couple short steps forward and craning her neck to look up at her friend. "What are you doing here?"

Rachel, a bit over-bundled in what seems to be all the red articles of clothing she owns, looks like a cuter, (significantly) more petite Kool-Aid Man. Her eyes sparkle happily as she leans over further, shapeless red windbreaker with "McKinley Dad" embroidered on the breast crinkling. "I know I was going to pick you up back at school when your bus came back, but I couldn't wait!"

Quinn laughs, utterly perplexed but pleasantly surprised all the same. "Rach, the game is over in literally, like, one minute."

"It was a last-minute whim sort of thing!" Rachel exclaims in reply, appearing to be very eager and delighted to be present at a football game. Quinn watches her friend bounce lightly on the balls of her feet and can totally understand where this enthusiasm is coming from; just last Friday afternoon after the pep rally for that night's home game, Rachel had practically gushed to Quinn about the "raw adolescent Americana" of the "teen pep ritual".

"Q…" Santana's warning voice comes from behind her. The clock, with just a few seconds left on it. _Right_.

"Okay," Quinn exhales, stepping back from the railing and back into formation. She stares out onto the field; mud flies up under the players' cleats like confetti as they clash against one another and almost palpable heat radiates from the activity. The clock ticks down the last ten seconds; it should be dramatic, going in slow motion as the game draws to a breathtaking finish, but to Quinn the pace is ordinary. Bland. It's almost disappointing how incredibly _not _thrilling these games always are to her, given the fact that her extra-curricular life revolves around cheering for them. _Almost_. She reminds herself that she doesn't do this out of overwhelming love or support of football or any of its players, and she feels a little less guilty. Since Quinn is a cheerleader mainly for the cloak of heterosexuality it gives her, enjoying a game of football isn't really that important. Rachel would probably be far better than her at it, if pure enthusiasm was what they were going off of. Rachel, with her bouncing springboard toes and encouraging smile (just from watching Quinn now), who would take the _cheer _in _cheerleading _very fundamentally and run like hell with it. The thought is incredibly endearing. Even more so is the image of Rachel in the Cheerios uniform that pops into Quinn's head like an instant-message notification. Although _endearing _may not exactly be the word for it, given the generous amount of skin that would be afforded one Ms. Rachel Berry in that outf-

_Bzzzzz_.

The sound of the buzzer snaps Quinn out of her own mind, and the timing could not have been better. She blinks and tosses her head, emptying it matter-of-factly.

"Okay, girls," Quinn commands over the yelling and applause from St. Bart's side. "Simple Trojan Horse formation with the school song on three. Ready, one, two…"

"I hate cheering when we lose," a sophomore named Chelsea-something grumbles as the squad turns as one body in an about-face towards the field and their team.

Quinn ignores the girl and gets into position, filling her lungs with air to lead the chant as the football players tug off their helmets and jog by.

"Hey! Hey! Look out tonight,

We are the red and white.

Hey! Hey! Look out tonight,

There's a victory in sight.

Our loyalty we will pledge to thee

As we shout our battle cry.

So, fight! Fight! Fight on McKinley,

And give us a victory.

T! T! T-I-T! A! A! A-N-S!

T-I-T! A-N-S!

Titans! Titans! Titans!"

As they finish the cheer, Puck trails at the end of the bedraggled cavalry running by. "T! T! T-I-T!" he echoes as he jogs past, pumping his helmet in the air and grinning. Santana and Quinn both pull disgusted faces at one another as they deflate from cheer-mode and turn away from the field.

"Right now Puckerman is actually beating Berry as the most annoying Jew I have ever met," the brunette comments dryly.

"Wow," Quinn muses, eyebrows raised, as they traipse their way back to the stands. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said about Rachel. Watch out or I might just tell her."

Santana shrugs. "She's really not all that bad. Sometimes I don't actually mind Berry."

"What about me?" Rachel herself pipes up from her perch on the railing as the two cheerleaders approach.

"Leave me alone, Yentl. I've got a headache." With that, Santana breezes by and picks up her duffel bag from the grass off to the side. "Don't take all night, Q," she calls over her shoulder as she walks off towards the parking lot.

"Yeah, yeah." Quinn turns back to Rachel, unable to help the slow grin that spreads across her face at the sight of her beaming friend.

"You know," the brunette says airily, "I think I'm growing on her."

Quinn snorts. "Her response would probably be, 'like a wart', but deep down I think so too." She look up at the rapidly-emptying bleachers. "Listen, I've got to check in with the squad and make sure everyone gets on the bus back, but I'll find your car in the parking lot as soon as I'm done, okay?"

"Sure," Rachel responds, leaning over the railing some more with a small smile, "I'll see you in a bit."

Something freezes in that second and Quinn sort of stares at Rachel. It's like déjà vu for a moment she's never experienced before, first-time déjà vu to that second when you're saying "see you later" to your sweetheart and then you kiss them goodbye. Right now, it's a god damn instinct. A functional response. Something so natural, and Quinn stares for that suspended second at Rachel's lips as though leaning in for a quick press and peck is what's _right_, as natural as a boy and a girl who have been going comfortably steady for two months, as natural as a girl and a girl who have been slowly falling in lo-

This is not okay.

Quinn snaps her mouth shut (god fucking damn it was open lips parted fucking _gaping _fucking obvious _shit_). "Okay, bye," she all but barks, turning on her heel and marching away.

She's all the way to the parking lot before she muses, cynically, that Rachel must be used to this by now.

The Cheerios' bus and the football team's bus sit right next to one another, and the boys and girls mingle with one another as they mill about, hefting duffel bags and getting loaded up. Quinn walks nearer and catches sight of Santana, leaning against the Cheerios' bus with her arms crossed as Puck mutters something to her with a smile. Santana laughs, but as Quinn approaches her the brunette gives Puck an upward head nod (indicating "privacy please", or something) and he clears off.

"We all good here?" Quinn says shortly as she walks up.

"I caught a freshie trying to sneak on the boys' bus," Santana reports matter-of-factly, "but I nabbed her and everyone's getting all packed up and ready to go."

"Cool." Quinn nods. "Hey, thanks again for taking over for me."

Santana shrugs. "It's all good. I gotta say, though, that if Coach were here she'd have a fucking cow. Or two."

"Then I guess it's a good thing she doesn't waste her cryogenics nights coming to away games, huh?" Quinn still doesn't exactly know what that means, but as long as it gives her room to breathe every once in a while from under Coach Sylvester's polyester-clad iron fist she doesn't care.

"Yeah, yeah." Santana waves her away dismissively. "Get out of here before I change my mind and steal your free chauffer for myself."

Quinn laughs and starts backing away. "Because you would really choose a forty minute car ride with Rachel over the bus with your minions."

"My minions are annoying little queefs!" Santana yells after her. Quinn just chuckles and waves, turning towards the direction where she'd seen Rachel's red VW bug.

"Hey- woah!"

She runs right into a tall, warm body. "Woah, sorry," it says quickly, hands coming up fast to her shoulders. "Sorry!"

"It's fine," Quinn mutters, startled. She looks up and finds the extremely apologetic face of the new kid, Sam. Sporting his brand new letterman jacket and damp just-showered hair, he lets his hands drop from her shoulders awkwardly and gives a nervous smile, almost the same one he'd flashed his first day in Glee Club. His first day as new meat.

"Sorry about that," he says _again_, running a hand through his floppy straw hair. Quinn can't help but smile.

"It's _fine_," she repeats. God, this kid is such a goof. He seems nice, though, from what she can tell in Glee. She gets that hint from the fact that he hangs out with the other jock guys but still talks to Kurt. If Quinn knows Finn, she knows he must have cornered the new guy and warned him about being friends with their gay classmate, quoting anything from threats to reputation to threats of flirtation - all things that Finn had been insecure of himself. Still, Quinn observed that Sam showed amiable loyalty to Kurt, the friend who had reached out to him in the first place and shepherded him into the group.

"I'm just paranoid," Sam sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking skyward wistfully. "The last time I knocked into a girl like that she died within minutes. Every bone in her body was broken."

Quinn claps a hand to her mouth as she lets out a rather unflattering snort. "Oh my god, you're terrible."

Sam tries to keep his face mournful but instead just ends up looking pouty. "Yeah, you can't be too careful. I don't want to the death of another pretty girl on my hands."

Quinn laughs aloud this time. Yeah, her initial thought was dead on; this kid really _is _a goof. And she says, before she can stop herself, "This is the weirdest succession of pick up lines I have ever heard in my entire life."

There's a micro flash on his face of nerves, a quick intake of breath, before he grins easily. "I can go weirder."

"Let's hear it." Quinn doesn't know for the life of her how she got into this conversation with Sam, because if she's not mistaken he seems to be kind of flirting with her (the _kind of _coming not so much from oblivion but from denial), but he's actually really funny and he's making her laugh. That's something that not a lot of people can do, especially if they've just met, and _especially _if it's all a part of some boy's "game". Quinn's musing on this neutrally if not a bit hesitantly when she catches a glimpse of Rachel about fifty feet away over Sam's shoulder. The brunette approaches her car, grabbing the driver's side door handle, and when they make eye contact she waves cheerily. Quinn automatically smiles back warmly.

"Would you wanna go out with me tomorrow night?"

She's still smiling, absently, when she turns back to Sam. The expression quickly drops off her mouth. "What?"

"I said, would you wanna go out with me? Tomorrow night?" He looks down at her hopefully.

"…That wasn't that weird," Quinn replies weakly. She certainly wasn't expecting this. Sure, she's popular; guys fall all over her as they should, given the fact that she's cheer captain and essentially every straight teenage male's ideal. Well, wet dream at the very least. It's just unexpected _every single time _when one steps up. Part of it certainly comes from the fact that she's gay, and that her brain for some reason can't fathom a boy's interest in her when she is void of any interest in return. And this initial shock _definitely _comes from lack of interest; you scream when you see a cockroach in your house, not a kitten. The impulse after shock is, naturally, to skittishly but politely decline.

She actually opens her mouth to do so. Niceties like "that's sweet of you, but…" and "Sam, you're really nice, but…" wait behind her teeth like salesmen at the front door, but neither those nor the others come out. Instead, Quinn looks from Sam's half-patient expression to the spot over his shoulder where Rachel waits in her car. Even through the blurry and fish bowled windshield their eyes meet - at least Quinn thinks they do - and Rachel wears the same face as Sam: half-patient but half-waiting. Rachel's just waiting for Quinn to come to the car, though, whereas Sam is waiting for a date. Essentially. Either way… that carpool is all Rachel will ever be waiting for from Quinn, and that's all it should be. The fact that Quinn is even thinking this at all and feeling her ribs twinge heavily, cancerously, is enough of indication that it _must _be. She's walking that slippery slope on a tightrope, and in a moment of perfect clarity she knows - _knows _- that given just a couple more weeks' time that instinct kiss could not be held back. It would be far too powerful.

"Yes," she blurts out, snapping back to Sam and holding his gaze.

"Really?" A slow grin tugs at the right side of his mouth and his eyes look genuinely happy.

"Really." And she allows herself to return his smile. It's not completely fake; she likes him well enough for a guy, and this could end up being exactly what she needs. It's not like she's searching for a boyfriend, but if that's what this ends up being - or even if they just go on a few dates - this dweeby and cute football player Sam Evans could definitely give Quinn a leg up with her image, both as a cheerleader and as a heterosexual… not to mention what it would do for her as far as distraction from Rachel. Besides, she may not know Sam well (or really at all), but she could do a lot worse. The "do you, like, have an X-box?" from Finn the spring of their freshman year echoes lamely in her inner ear. At least Sam makes her laugh.

"Cool," the boy breathes in relief, looking for all the world like he's trying not to hop from foot to foot in excitement. He's kind of like a golden retriever. The color, Quinn reflects, does suit him, though. Yeah, they'll look positively picturesque next to one another.

"So, uh," he continues, "I'll catch you after Glee Club tomorrow to iron out the details of time and place and stuff."

"Sounds great," Quinn replies, backing away slowly with a small smile as Sam does the same in the direction of the buses. The expression is not completely fake again; she feels less than _thrilled _about this whole thing but she can't help but be amused when Sam backs into a parked Chevy Impala.

"Okay, see you tomorrow!" He's blushing furiously but still grinning.

"Bye, Sam."

Quinn doesn't realize she'd been shivering until she drops into the passenger's seat of Rachel's car. The curtain of heat that envelopes her feels so warm and rejuvenating that it stings a little on her cheeks.

"Ready to go?" Rachel asks cheerfully.

"Roll out, Autobots."

The tiny brunette smiles as she puts the car in gear. "Easy now, Optimus Quinn. Ladybug could be a Dementor for all we know."

"_Deceptacon_," Quinn corrects, holding back a snort of laughter. Ever since they'd gone to see _Transformers 2 _last weekend, Rachel had been convinced that her red Volkswagen was a shape-shifting robot from another planet, and she had even taken to calling it Ladybug so as not to "damage the poor sentient creature's dignity by leaving it nameless."

"Yes," she replies, "that's what I said." They talk comfortably for about twenty-five minutes as Rachel drives, the monotony of the blurry black Midwestern landscape and the thrum of the tires on the asphalt nearly lulling Quinn to sleep. Her eyelids are just about to droop as Rachel clears her throat.

"So Quinn, what were you and Sam talking about?"

Quinn tries to prop herself back up in her seat, having found herself slid almost halfway down in her relaxed stupor. "Hm? What about Sam?"

Her eyes remain on the road. "Just before we left, in the parking lot. I'm just curious because I've never seen the two of you speak before."

"Oh, right," Quinn concedes, "In the parking lot." She doesn't know why she feels uneasy.

Rachel chances a glance in Quinn's direction. "Yes, Quinn, the parking lot."

She shouldn't feel so reluctant to tell Rachel about this date. After all, they are just friends, and even though Quinn has some weird, unhealthy, displaced feelings about Rachel, there's no rational reason for Quinn to avoid telling her. It's not like the brunette would have any reason to be upset. This whole thing is normal, and Rachel's pretty much her best friend, and it's normal to tell your best friend these things.

"He, uh," she says carefully, as though she's just now revealing this to herself. "He asked me out. We're going out tomorrow night."

This time Rachel's gaze twists in Quinn's direction more sharply. "_Really_." And it's not the "really" with a question mark at the end, either; this one is the "really" with the emphasis on the first syllable and a little more than a perceptible amount of skepticism.

"Yes, really." Quinn's brows knit together. "Why do you sound so shocked?"

"It's nothing," Rachel replies lightly. "I mean, I thought Sam was gay."

Quinn laughs humorlessly. It's a mechanism of disbelief. "That's impossible. I mean, _he's _the one who asked _me _out, and unless I'm mistaken I'm kind of a girl."

"Quinn, have you ever heard of a _beard_? Sometimes homosexuals pursue members of the opposite sex in order to hide their true dispositions."

This is going completely differently than Quinn had thought it would; she never thought Rachel would react like this. The patronizing tone Rachel uses rubs her the wrong way, and the beard implications touch a nerve - it is, after all, exactly what _Quinn _is after with Sam.

"Why can't you just be happy for me?" she snaps, exasperated. "I haven't dated anyone in almost a year."

"I'm sorry," Rachel huffs. "I just, I can tell that Kurt likes him."

"Kurt?" Quinn doesn't even bother to wince at how shrill her own voice must sound. "You've got to be kidding me. Kurt doesn't even _like _you, Rachel, why do you even care? Not to mention the fact that _Sam's not gay_."

If Rachel is deterred by Quinn's words, she doesn't show it. She just shakes her head stiffly. "I just don't like to see someone shove aside and deny their true identity like this. It's not right."

Quinn's jaw drops as her eyes narrow. "You are unbelievable." And she really can't believe it; not only the way Rachel is acting but the fact that Quinn feels so _aggravated_. Not once in the course of their new friendship has Rachel been anything but perfect and all of a sudden she's being inexplicably difficult, and for the first time Quinn doesn't want to be around her. She spends the last ten minutes of the car ride seething in silence and staring out the window. A few times Rachel glances from the road over to the passenger's seat, the faintest twinge of worry visible on her brow, but if she's sorry she doesn't say it.

The red bug pulls up at Quinn's house, and once the wheels roll to a halt she hunches over to hoist her bag into her lap. That annoyance and pure frustration is still pulsing in her ears, and she's ready to just get out of the car and leave.

"Thanks for the ride," Quinn says shortly as she unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the car door.

Rachel sighs and glances at her hands in her lap. "Bye, Quinn," she says woodenly. "See you tomorrow." No apology. No remorse. No nothing. Huffing in frustration, Quinn shuts the door and walks up the step to her house. Once she gets the front door open, Rachel's car pulls away from the curb.

Quinn deposits her bag on the floor and kicks off her shoes noisily, not bothering to be discreet about her sour mood. Thoughts of Rachel and Sam chase one another in circles around her mind quickly enough to make her feel dizzy as she goes into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator; what's Rachel's problem? Why can't she just be happy for Quinn? Quinn listened dutifully when everything was about Finn, why the fuck is it so hard to make things easier and just return the favor?

"Have a good game tonight, sweetie?" Judy calls from the living room. Her voice is thick and echoed by the faint sound of ice clinking. Quinn shuts her eyes and makes a quick prediction: amaretto sour, bonus points for a twist of lime. When she opens them she glances to her left; just as she'd thought, the correct bottles sit on the kitchen counter. Half a lime sits there too, its acidic juices drying on the stainless steel of a paring knife next to it. That's four in a row now for this little game Quinn plays with herself. Unsurprisingly, she only feels apathy for the victory.

"Yep," she calls back, making her way to the staircase. She's just in no mood to start a conversation with her mother tonight, preferring to stomp up to her room and try to forget about how pissed she is with Rachel. It will probably fade down to the pit of her stomach - ignored but not gone - sometime around when she's brushing her teeth.

"That's great." The drowsy voice floats up the stairs. "Goodnight, Quinnie." Vaguely, Quinn figures that her mother, unlike Rachel, would probably actually _love _to hear about her date. She slams her bedroom door shut.


	17. Chapter 17: The Other Booth

_**Author's Note**: Okayyyyy, I'm home on break and I'll be updating more. Aside from that, I'm over that hump where I didn't really know what to write before I get to the real meat of the story - yeah, you read right, as of this chapter things are going to get decidedly more **meaty**. Ew. Maybe juicy is better. Either way, leave reviews and let me know what you think. Thanks Fababies!_  
><em>P.S. I don't know if you'll be able to to tell but I've been playing a lot of Zelda lately... sorry! :P<em>

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><p>Quinn Fabray doesn't need another reason to be unhappy. She'd avoided it for nearly two weeks, that oh-so-familiar feeling, and now here it is again running laps around her mind like a wicked marathon runner. All thanks to that fight with Rachel. It's funny how the girl who makes Quinn the happiest can also make her most miserable, when she has a mind to. The way one single petite diva completely controls her emotions is not okay. That's what something like <em>love<em> is, and Friday morning Quinn has flip-flopped back to telling herself she has absolutely _no_ romantic feelings towards Rachel. She's recognizing the dangerous potential once again, at the very least, so everything from here on out is a preventative measure. The epiphany from last night was just a fluke. The fight has scared her skittish heart away from admitting it was anything more.

So she's going to deal with that misery the best way she's trained herself to: by pushing it as far back as it will go and trying to ignore it. She's going to focus on Sam and allow herself to get excited for her date later on tonight. While she can't talk herself out of being gay the way she can with having a crush on Rachel, Quinn can take this thing with Sam at face value for the valuable prospect it really is: a potential beard and a distraction from her best friend. Besides, if she's being completely honest with herself, Quinn is genuinely excited to go on the first date she's been asked on in nearly a year, even if it's with someone she has absolutely zero romantic interest in.

Even with this tall, blond distraction, however, ignoring her problems today isn't nearly as easy as Quinn would like it to be.

It's never really been much of an issue before, but leave it to Rachel to make it hard. She's been the exception to essentially every other one of Quinn's rules already, it shouldn't be any surprise that this would be any different.

She just never knew it would be this tough.

At least that Monday last week after the blowup at Puck's party Quinn didn't have to deal with being at school with Rachel. Sure, there was the general bad feeling and that was unpleasant enough, but Rachel had stayed home from school that day and Quinn didn't have to _see_ her. She didn't have to sit in third period History, a mere two rows away from her friend, and stew frigidly in a frosty silence. She didn't have to sit helplessly, torn between the ache of this hurtful silence and the persistence of her anger (because if Quinn wasn't still upset with Rachel's brusque and unsupportive reaction the night before then she would just make the first move to call the whole thing off). Sometimes Quinn's misery is muddy, blurry in its endlessness, but sometimes it's cut clear as crystal and sharp as a tack; it was blurry that Monday last week when Rachel wasn't there, but today it's agonizingly sharp as she stares at the way Rachel does not once falter from her fixed gaze on the blackboard.

She sits at lunch with Brittany and Santana, eyes seeing straight through her friends' good-natured bickering as she wonders if her own façade is as convincing as Rachel's, and if Rachel has any remorse about this at all. This cold front Quinn is putting up must be convincing; she's perfected it after all, and it only garners strength when she really has something to be mad about (which, regardless of how pitiful and needy she feels, she still has). Rachel, on the other hand… It's hard to know. Quinn, on her biased side of the crossfire, feels that Rachel has nothing to really be mad about, but still a fight's a fight. Cheerio Captain Quinn is essentially the queen of archetypical teenage girls, and she knows just how convoluted and pointless arguments between friends can be. Someone says something, someone gets mad, and soon everyone's mad and no one remembers why. It's a ritual, a process. Still, though Quinn understands, she still thinks it royally sucks. Idly and glumly she picks at her salad, reflecting for the first time in her and Rachel's friendship that she's glad she doesn't share a lunch period with the brunette. At least out of her presence Quinn doesn't have to deal with the horrible tension.

"Look, all I'm saying is the guy looks like a labradoodle with Asian eyes. I just don't get the allure of it."

"Santana, labradoodles are fluffy and adorable, which can hardly be counted as a bad thing, and they obviously wouldn't have cast him as Jacob if he didn't even look doggy at all." Brittany rolls her eyes as she states the obvious. "And as for the Tina eyes, no one's looking at those when his shirt is off. Those abs are where the lure is at." The blonde nods sagely, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth.

"So not into the whole bestiality thing, Britt," Santana counters with a disgusted expression. She has this curious little habit Quinn's picked up on of always complaining about any guy Brittany claims is attractive; she always finds _something_ wrong with him. It's almost as though she's trying to talk her best friend out of it or something, whether or not she realizes she's even doing it. It may just be a subconscious thing.

"Q, back me up here." With that, Brittany turns expectantly to an unprepared Quinn, who just blinks.

Santana rolls her eyes. "I think you're barking up the wrong tree there."

"I'd love to let labraTaylor bark up _my_-"

"_Okay_, Brittany, that's just peachy keen," the Latina interrupts loudly, shaking her head. "_Dio_, I could have at least finished my yogurt without that visual. No offense to anyone's freaky closet fetishes but I am _not_ down with the furries while I am in the middle of eating."

Brittany shrugs, nonplussed, and turns her attention back to Quinn. "Where are you today, Q? 'Cause I don't think it's here."

"Yeah, don't think I haven't noticed you staring at Lunchlady Mosleiwicz for the past twenty minutes. Something's got you off in dreamland, now spill."

Quinn sighs, not up to evading the question under Santana and Brittany's – scrutinizing and genuinely concerned, respectively – gazes.

"I have a date tonight with that new kid, Sam," she admits. The reaction is instantaneous.

"_Guppy_jowls Mc_Gee_?" Santana erupts, flabbergasted. "You mean you're actually going for a whirl with Don Knotts himself?"

"I seriously don't even get your references anymore."

"I mean sure, his mouth's a little scary, Q, but I don't see why you look so sad about going out with him. I seriously doubt Sam's gonna vacuum you right up while you guys are making out."

"Britt, that's not what I'm-"

"Jay-Z? Do you understand that reference at least? I mean, the color's a bit off, but with this mouth there's really no Caucasian comparison. You've gotta give me some credit for trying here, though, I really thought you'd appreciate that Don Knotts reference. Seriously, your granny cardigans always make me peg you as a TVLand-reruns type of gal."

"That's _not_ it," Quinn interrupts loudly, cutting off her friends' ramblings. She takes a deep breath in the welcome silence that follows. "I'm not freaked about Sam, it's just a stupid date. The problem is that when I told Rachel about it, she reacted kinda shitty and now we're in a fight. It really sucks."

"Oh, not again," Brittany says sadly. Santana just eyes Quinn shrewdly for a moment before opening her mouth to speak.

"How exactly did Babs react shitty? Why would she have a problem with it, did she say?"

"It was just really dumb." Quinn rolls her eyes. "She kinda got all bitchy and said Sam's gay, and then that she doesn't like me going out with him because Kurt likes him."

"That is such bullshit," Santana exclaims, shaking her head. "Those two queens can't even stand each other, there's no way she's actually that loyal to him."

"Exactly!"

"She's gotta have some ulterior motives."

Quinn pauses, letting that idea sink in. What kind of ulterior motives would Rachel have? The only times Quinn can think of that her friend had ever shown any capacity for being sneaky or underhanded is when doing so for musical purposes. Is she getting a solo out of this? Quinn thinks harder, fighting an ugly epiphany from taking root. No, it couldn't be. If Quinn's changed, having been given the benefit of the doubt, why shouldn't Rachel be? Still, that very doubt sinks its tiny claws into the pulp of Quinn's brain, needling away at her and refusing to leave her alone. Every inhale and exhale that passes through the chambers of her lungs gives more fuel to the little idea, igniting it and setting spark to her suspicion.

"Rachel wants Sam."

"What?" Santana and Brittany chorus in unison, both frowning.

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Quinn says hotly. "Nothing else does. Rachel doesn't want me going out with Sam because she likes him."

"Hold on," Santana cuts in, looking alarmed. "That is _not_ what I was getting at."

"Quinn, sometimes I wonder if you even have eyeballs in your head because Rachel is _clearly_ jealous of-"

"This is like Finn all over again!" Quinn rambles on, suspicion snowballing almost too rapidly for her mind and mouth to keep up with. "It's like she has this weird competitive compulsion to go after anyone _I_ want. God. Do you think Rachel even actually _likes_ Sam, or just wants him because he's into me?"

"Okay, that's enough, crazy." This time, it's Santana who shuts Quinn up. The blonde sits, subdued and tight-lipped, as her friend eyes her sharply.

"You have got to jump off this psycho train of thought right now," Santana tells her bluntly. "I know you're a little bit paranoid given Berry's boyfriend-stealing past, but I'm pretty sure she's matured past that just as well as you have past the slushie showers. For one thing, Babs has given the golden-jock-boy thing a shot already and obviously figured out pretty damn well that it doesn't deserve to be on such a high pedestal as she thought it did. Any moron can see that. Even though the Blond Blowfish looks a little bit more decent than her dear ex, I still sincerely doubt she'd go for Finn two-point-oh."

"Makes sense," Brittany muses.

"For another thing," Santana goes on, still in full steam, "All that shit from last year that you two pulled with one another was a clear indication of petty jealousy. You'd have a Blue Raspberry Blitz dumped on her noggin because you were jealous of how much of an individual she was, she'd chase your boyfriend because she was jealous of how popular you were, blah blah blah, rinse and repeat. Since you gals are basically BFFs now – not to mention both decently fucking mellowed out – there's no reason for either of you to still be jealous, AKA, pull the same old shit. There's a reason you're not still calling her Tuck-n-Tape, Q, and it goes both ways."

The tips of Quinn's ears are burning as she sits, deflated and thoroughly chastised, under Santana's piercing gaze. "You're right," she finally admits, nodding slowly. Everything Santana said was absolutely true – almost frighteningly so. The Latina had always been incredibly perceptive and an eerily accurate judge of character, and not for the first time Quinn is grateful for it. Her paranoia had spiked and gotten out of hand, and this was exactly the wake-up call she needed. Leave it to Santana to give Quinn a good reality check. She's just glad that this time, for once, she's listening.

"One more thing," Santana pipes up, eyes still boring into Quinn. "You can't let Berry hear you talking this way."

"I won't."

"I mean it," she reiterates severely. "That little Jew-ess has put up with all sorts of crazy from you, but she doesn't deserve to hear that you were thinking like this. It'll kill her."

"I know," Quinn murmurs, feeling like the most selfish person in the world. She hates herself for having ever doubted Rachel – if her friend can forgive and forget so easily and selflessly, then there's no reason why Quinn can't do so too, especially since Rachel has been a thousand times more wonderful overall. "There won't be anything for her to hear, it was just a stupid passing thing. You snapped me out of it."

"Down, girl," Brittany jokes, elbowing Santana in the ribs with a dazzling grin. Santana smiles sidelong at her before turning back to Quinn and giving her a brief nod. "Good," she says curtly, almost shyly. It's possible she feels embarrassed having exposed so much true concern – especially in regards to Rachel, who she always appears to tolerate at best. Quinn has believed for a long time, however, that Santana holds a secret soft spot for the tiny diva.

There's an awkward pause – though an oddly comfortable one, all the same – before Quinn clears her throat.

"All I know is this stupid fight had better end soon."

The other two cheerleaders nod without hesitation.

* * *

><p>"It's like, come on. I'm sorry, Quinn, but if I had just met you I wouldn't be agreeing to go out and risk my neck to go save your kingdom. It doesn't matter how pretty you are. Although in the game we'd be, like, twelve, so that's not really a factor. Still, just makes it even more ridiculous, right?"<p>

Quinn smiles faintly and traces circles around the rim of her glass of water. "You make it sound like this Princess Zelda is his destiny, though, so maybe it's just not worth fighting fate over it."

Sam cocks his head and grins across the table at her, earnest expression soft in the light emanating from the tiny candle sitting between the salad bowl and the breadsticks basket. It's a real nice touch. The two inch tall lump of wax makes the whole thing so much more romantic; as if the video game analogy wasn't doing it already. Quinn stifles the urge to yawn, feeling thoroughly guilty that she probably came across like she was hinting she and Sam are _destined_.

It's not that she's not having a nice date; she is having a nice date, it's actually been one of the best she's been on. Sure, Breadstix is getting a little old, and the conversation isn't exactly _riveting_ (Nintendo 64? Really?), but the food _is_ good, and Sam _is_ funny enough, and Quinn is only _occasionally_ distracted by nagging thoughts of the last time she was here, across from a radiant-looking and adorably nervous Rachel Berry on their _not_ date. This tonight, however, _is_ a date, and the guy she's with is cute and sweet and she couldn't ask for more. Still, no matter how cute and charming and endearingly quirky the suitor in question is, he's still… a guy. And there's no thrill in that. She doesn't know why she's disappointed by a lack of excitement here, seeing as she knows fully well that Sam or any other boy is incapable of stirring anything remotely close to that in her (and she really has tried). She's known it all along, and that's why she cuts the dopey, mop-headed jock sitting across from her a break.

"So, do they end up together in the end?" she asks, at least a little bit interested. It's not like she's completely bored to death; Sam _is_ interesting, even if the stuff he talks about is quite literally alien to Quinn. Seriously, he'd spent ten minutes on _Cloverfield_.

He takes a few generous gulps of his iced tea. "Uh, actually, they don't. There's a bunch of other girls in the game – well, sort of girls, one is kind of a fish – and they all have it hot for Link too. He never really picks any of them, though, he just focuses on his thing saving the world. More of a 'business first' kind of guy, you know?"

"Maybe a gay kind of guy," Quinn remarks dryly. She's surprised when her date turns red – definitely not the reaction she was expecting.

"It doesn't mean that," he says flatly, eyes flickering to a lone black olive sitting proudly on top of the mound of salad between them. "Just 'cause a guy's not going out with a bunch of girls doesn't mean he's gay. He probably just has more important things going on."

Quinn chews the rubbery, slick inside of her cheek for a moment. As much as she hates to admit it, this video game guy Link's excuses sound awfully familiar. She doesn't know anything about this stupid game but already what Sam has said sounds like Quinn's very first go-to excuse for anyone's questions. For some reason she's compelled to challenge it, to challenge this fictional person who means nothing to her in this moment but her own lies. For some reason she wants to beat down her own excuse, as though it will liberate her.

"Like defeating monsters," she says pointedly, hardly aware of where it's coming from, "or playing sports, or getting good grades? Anything that will distract from those thoughts?"

Sam still won't look at her. "Maybe his parents are too strict to allow him to date," he protests, prodding a wilted spinach leaf on his plate with his fork.

He's just offered up Quinn's Plan B excuse. This is all too familiar. She deflates from the challenging mindset she's had moments ago, caught up in her own head, and nods in agreement. "Or her standards are too high for anyone around here," she says simply, automatically.

At that, Sam finally looks up into Quinn's eyes. His face is pale, and aside from the surprise she can discern around his wider eyelids, it's unreadable. Quinn realizes with a slight jolt what she'd said – _too much. A little too much_. Her mouth bobs open and shut a few times, trying to form something else to say.

"I-"

"I'm sorry," Sam says suddenly, leaning back in the booth and shaking his head at his lap. "I can't do this."

Quinn blinks, lips twitching in a confused and humorless smile. "Can't do what?"

He just shakes his head again, repeating "I'm sorry." There's a pause where he bites his lip and gazes at Quinn intently. "You're a really great girl, Quinn; you're smart and nice and beautiful and popular, but I just can't. I thought it would work, but I'm not ready to lie and stuff."

Something flip-flops in the pit of Quinn's stomach, leaping and settling with a heavy weight at the same time, as she stares at the pinched expression on Sam's face. What she faintly registers as feeling is some part dread and, could it be… excitement? "So you _are_ gay?" she almost-whispers, surprised at the hint of hopefulness laced in her own voice.

All Sam does is nod. "Yeah."

She doesn't know why she hadn't let it register until now. Of _course_ she knew during that whole conversation, Sam was being just about as subtle as a cat who wants to be pet – although surely not knowing he was. The guilty blushing, the sheer readiness of those excuses, as though they were practiced and preened and ready as could be right up his sleeves (Quinn can easily identify); Quinn had an unidentifiable hunch that as soon as she'd said the word "gay" they really weren't talking about a video game anymore. She sees it now. At the time, she was too busy being wrapped up in herself. Now, she looks at Sam, who fidgets nervously, obviously waiting for her to say something. He's obviously waiting for her to say the _worst_, if his worried, no, _terrified_ eyes are any indication; the boy clearly hadn't picked up on her dead giveaways either.

"Can you keep a secret?" Quinn says slowly, leaning forward. She can't believe she's about to say it. She's never said it to anyone in her life. She's never even said it out _loud_, and now she's about to tell it to this boy who's practically a stranger.

"Uh." He frowns, caught off guard. "Sure."

"So am I."

Sam's eyes widen almost comically. He leans back as though physically pushed. "You're a _lesbian_?" he croaks, at least having the decency to keep his voice lowered.

Quinn positively shudders. That's it, that's the word. Her identity, her secret alter-ego, enunciated out loud with complete and utter shock and yet all the simplicity in the world. No one's ever called her that. No one's ever _known_. She wants to run, but instead she offers a wry smile, even chuckles weakly. "Yeah," she exhales, feeling oddly liberated, "I am. Shocker, isn't it?"

"Yes," he replies, nodding forcefully. Then he looks thoughtful. "…And no, I guess. You said some stuff before that kind of gave away that you know what it's like, but…" Sam looks up from his salad plate and meets Quinn's eyes, grinning ruefully. "I guess what you said had me more focused on how gay _I_ am than anything else. Then it all just kept building up so much I felt like I was gonna explode if I didn't let it out. You know what I mean?"

Quinn returns his smile. "Well, I'm glad you told me," she admits sincerely. "And yeah, I know what you mean." Her fingers are still trembling in her lap, and they're giving her a hard time at smoothing out her dress, but she feels immensely relieved. She's out to someone. She's _out_ to someone, and that in itself has her feeling like a huge weight has been lifted off her back. To add to it, that someone is not only okay with it but is also the best ally she could have asked for. Sam is in the same boat as her, and for once in her life Quinn has someone she can talk to about this who knows just what she's going through. She's still feeling freaked out about this either way, and she's going to be really upset once it hits her that her best chance at a good beard has fallen through, but for now, Quinn is letting herself have a small moment of relief. She even lets herself laugh a little bit.

Who'd have thought. Out to each other before the main course even arrives.


	18. Chapter 18: The Other Bed

_**Author's Note**: This chapter is over twice as long as my usual. It took a lot of work, but it came out easily because I've had it planned from nearly the beginning. I told you it would be meaty, and you know what, the meat is JUST getting started... being.. meat._  
><em>Anyway, please please PLEASE leave a review and let me know what you think, I want to know now more than ever. <em>

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><p>After dinner, Quinn asks Sam – not unkindly – if they can just skip the movie they'd planned on going to afterwards. Coming out to someone is incredibly tiring, she explains wryly, and she just wants to go home. To her relief, Sam doesn't look as though his feelings are hurt; he nods understandingly, offering to drive her back home. As pleasant as their rapport is together, and as promising as their friendship is shaping up to be, he's obviously not too keen on continuing a date with someone he's not attracted to whatsoever now that he doesn't have to pretend to be. At least they're on the same page.<p>

As Sam drives her home, Quinn looks around the cab of his pickup truck, at the letterman jacket lying unassumingly in the backseat, at the small toolbox of wrenches sitting on the floor back there, at Sam himself. Everything about him is so… _not gay_. All Quinn knew about gay people before tonight was that they were effeminate and colorful, interested in clothes and hair – all she had to go by were HBO and Kurt Hummel, after all. Sam, however, has turned that upside down. Frankly, she's more than a little embarrassed by how ignorant she is about her own community; she'd managed to embarrass herself with Sam earlier during dinner by asking, really without thinking, how he could like football if he was gay. He'd frowned and thrown the question back at her about cheerleading, and she'd promptly shut up. Thoughts thoroughly provoked, Quinn realized that she has a lot to learn. Gay people can be as diverse – normal or _not_ normal – as anyone else.

During the rest of their time at Breadstix, Quinn and Sam talked mostly about how they knew they were gay and how they were dealing with it. She learned that Sam had moved to Ohio from Tennessee, and that he had grown up around Southern homophobia, which sounded much worse to Quinn than Midwestern homophobia. Sam's dad, apparently, is one of those sports enthusiast parents, the kind that had signed his son up for baseball, football, basketball, and lacrosse from the time he was old enough to play. Sam claimed that it was a firm attempt to make him into what a man should be, and that that in itself is a pretty clear indication that his father would not react well to having a gay son.

"I can't come out," he'd said, chewing his lasagna warily. "They have all these intense, all-American, _straight_ expectations of me – it'd kill them. Especially my dad." His eyes grew distant. "And then he'd kill _me_."

After a shrug and a short explanation about how he's not out at school either because "kids are just plain mean", Sam turned it over to Quinn. She told him her story, but aside from injecting cheerleading and religion into it there was really not much difference between hers and his. They're both just two kids under a lot of pressure to be perfect and terrified of screwing that up and facing the consequences.

"Here we are."

The truck rolls gently to a stop at the curb in front of Quinn's house. She looks over to find Sam smiling at her and mirrors the expression faintly.

"Thanks for tonight, Sam. I had a nice time."

He scratches the back of his head. "Me too," he replies with a nod. "It's just weird, you know? Everything that happened."

"Yeah," Quinn breathes, "It still hasn't really hit me yet." And it hasn't. She looks out the window at her lawn; not a single blade of grass is out of place. She figures her life should have the decency to behave similarly, but fuck if it's going to have a mind of its own and let everyone down. A sigh escapes her still-glossed lips and mists against the window; it's nearly two weeks into November and the chilly air's gaining an unforgiving bite to it already. Quinn knows she should be freezing, after having been driven hardly two miles in a truck whose heater hasn't fully kicked in yet, but she doesn't feel much of anything right now. She also knows she should feel happy, relieved that she has found such a valuable ally in Sam, but tonight after everything she's found herself in one of those moods.

"Well," Sam says with a businesslike clap of his hands, "I hope you're not mad that I don't kiss you goodnight."

"Mad's not the word for it," Quinn chuckles, unclasping her seatbelt and wrenching the door open. "_Relieved_ is more like it, and I know you feel just as happy as I am to be off the hook."

"Hey!" He grins good-naturedly, holding up both hands in defense. "You act like I think you're gross or something!"

"I dunno," she teases, hopping nimbly out of the cab and turning back around to face Sam. "I just figured it might be mutual."

"Ouch," he hisses, clutching at his heart dramatically. "That hurts."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "_Goodnight_ Sam," she says before shutting the cab's door, a small layer of fondness hiding beneath her goodbye.

No one's home. She realizes that when she unlocks the front door and traipses into a silent house, one lamp lit in the front window, and she's not surprised. Judy will be out doing _something_ with herself, anything to distract from her failed marriage and the always-empty house, whose chairs and hallways echo a persistent reminder of everything that fell apart. Quinn feels a good deal of pity for her mother; her husband left, and not only was he and their home together her entire world, but that world came crashing down because he cheated on her. Quinn despises the empty aftermath that this change has created, but her life fell apart last year when she was kicked out for being pregnant. Her time of crisis has passed, and in that time she came to see her father for the coldhearted bigot that he is. She grew to hate him, so when he let down their family and fucked off there was no wonderful father-figure image to have shattered. It was a reinforcement of the person she had already realized he was.

This was not the case, however, for her mother. Russel was everything to Judy, and now that he's gone she has… well, Quinn doesn't know what she has now. She doesn't even know if Judy has her own daughter.

Quinn flops down on the couch and stares at the blank black plasma screen in front of her, at a loss for what to do now. She considers kicking off her flats and turning on the TV, settling in the cushions for the night on the first hoarding reality show she comes across, but she doesn't want to be alone. It's a Friday night, and she feels a vulnerable chill of loneliness clutch at her shoulders. That causes her to shiver. She cross her legs underneath her and pulls out her phone.

Predictably, Quinn's first instinct is to call Rachel. If it wasn't for that whole meaningless thing with Sam, they'd probably be halfway to the mall on a soft pretzel craving run by now. She feels her chest clench at the thought. This whole fighting thing is just pointless now, and Quinn doesn't want to deal with it anymore. Fuck her pride, it's already taken enough of a nosedive tonight since she found out her big gay beard was after her for the same twisted reason. Rachel was right all along. That in itself makes Quinn's cheeks burn when she dwells on it for too long, but she doesn't even care about that anymore. If she has to be the first person to crack and make a move, then so be it. She just _misses_ her Rachel too much.

_Her_ Rachel?

The pads of Quinn's fingers slip for a moment, sliding clumsily over the keypad of her phone as she taps out a message. Quickly, she gives the irksome thought a firm push back to the cobwebby corner of her skull and continues on carefully thinking out her message.

She'll text Rachel first. No need to be all pushy and in-your-face by calling her right off the bat, it's Quinn's style to be subtle anyway. Besides, she's not really used to the whole "come crawling back" tactic.

_hey, what are you doing tonight? i miss you_

Quinn hesitates over the last sentence, debating whether or not to leave it in. Finally, she expels a deep breath from between her lips and hits Send. Fuck it.

Five minutes go by. She sits there, fidgeting with the belt of her coat (she's in her own home and still hasn't taken it off). Seven minutes. Eight. Still, no answer. Quinn sighs; what could she be doing? Not to be mean, but it's not like Rachel will have other plans, right? She doesn't exactly have other friends, and that's just being realistic. Drumming her fingers anxiously on the right arm of the couch, Quinn wonders if Rachel is just ignoring her. The thought is horrible, even worse than that of being ignored in person today. All she knows is that waiting makes her antsy and that the feeling is too unpleasant to bear. She snatches up her phone and hits the Dial button before she can change her mind.

It rings once. Twice. Three, four, five times the phone rings. Quinn begins to worry that she's going to be ignored again and sent to voicemail when she hears a click on the other line. Then rustling, and muffled voices. Finally:

"Hello?" It's Rachel. Her voice is clipped, sounding hurried.

"Hi…" Quinn responds hesitantly, drawing out the H. It sounds like her friend is busy, and now Quinn is second guessing herself. "What… What's up?" Upon hearing how lame she sounds, Quinn blushes furiously to herself. To top it all off, she's gone all shy now. Great. She should never have even called.

"Um, nothing much," comes the reply on the other line. Rachel sounds distracted, and if this whole exchange were not peculiar enough Quinn then hears a distinct but indistinct male voice asking something in the background. There's a pause, Rachel's loud but distant whisper to the other person of "Nothing!", and then her voice comes through the receiver to Quinn again.

"Listen, I can't really talk right now, but I'll talk to you some other time, okay?"

Quinn physically starts. "Oh," she croaks, caught completely off guard. "Okay, uh… sorry to bug you, then. Should I just call you later?"

"I'm sorry," Rachel says quickly, "I can't. I've got to go now, Quinn. 'Bye."

Before Quinn can even react, she hears a _click_ on the other line and it goes dead. She's been hung up on. Dazed, she lets her hand drop from her ear; it lands in her lap heavily and gracelessly, like the pheasants her dad would pick off out of the sky on the hunting trips he'd let her accompany him on. The dead-pheasant-hand plucks absently at the belt of her coat again, and Quinn feels incredibly foolish. Foolish and confused, sitting in her empty yawning house with her coat on like a guest and wondering why she'd been snubbed by the person she secretly cares about more than anyone in the world. Quinn had even made herself vulnerable – something incredibly rare – by breaking the silence and practically groveling for scraps of Rachel's attention only to be totally brushed off, and for what? Who was that boy in the background with Rachel, the boy apparently much more worthy of her time than Quinn?

She doesn't want to believe what she suspects, but her stomach already has, if the way it completely drops out is any indication. What if Rachel's with Finn tonight? No, she definitely doesn't _want_ to believe it, but the longer Quinn sits there the more it assails her, taking advantage of the raw weakness she feels after this rejection and setting up camp in her imagination. Why shouldn't Finn and Rachel get back together? They'd broken up because of Rachel's loyalty to Quinn, but by now Rachel must have realized what a mistake that was. She must have realized that their friendship isn't worth all the difficulty and fighting, and if anything is worth salvaging it's her relationship with Finn. That could be it, or maybe he's convinced her that Quinn is harboring a huge perverted lesbian crush masquerading as an attempt at benign friendship. It doesn't matter what he's saying; she pictures him leaning close, brushing Rachel's feather-soft skin as he breathes in her ear any reason to forsake Quinn.

Honestly, it doesn't matter if he's actively trying to win her over at Quinn's expense, or if the boy in the background is even Finn; all Quinn knows is that she'll never take priority over a boy late on a Friday night, because she's just a friend and Rachel is straight. That's all that matters. It drives in home like an iron spike, and the realization of it (she's known it all along) is devastating.

Feeling lonely and suddenly short of breath and teetering on the verge of tears, Quinn shakily reaches for her phone. It's slipped between the couch cushions, and she digs around for a few seconds, sniffling furiously. Finally, she fishes it out and with trembling (dead pheasant) fingers taps out a text message:

_can I come over? emergency_

* * *

><p>As soon as Santana opens her front door, Quinn sweeps past her into the foyer.<p>

"I'm sorry," she says hurriedly, running a hand through her hair and casting a distraught look at the wood floor all around her. "I know this is really sudden and you probably have better things to do. I just, uh…" She trails off and turns around to face her friend, at a loss. "I don't know."

"It's okay," Santana replies, concern tugging at her features as she shuts the door behind her. Dressed casually in gray sweatpants and a plain but fitted white t-shirt, she moves towards Quinn. "But what's going on? You're kinda freaking me out."

Quinn opens her mouth and then shuts it again, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid for charging over to Santana's house under the pretense of an emotional emergency without even knowing what she wants to complain about. She wrings her hands slightly and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind:

"Are your parents home?"

Santana glances through the doorway towards the kitchen, past which is the living room. The faint jumbled noise from the TV floats through. "Yeah, but it's fine that you're here." She gives a small, lopsided smile. "Mom was actually really excited when I told her you were coming over, since she hasn't seen you in so long. It's a good thing _Design To Sell_ is on or else she'd be molesting you with eighty-seven questions about glee club and Cheerios and what you had for breakfast this morning." Shaking her head, Santana moves lazily towards the staircase. "I swear to god," she calls over her shoulder, "that woman likes you more than she likes me."

Obviously expected to follow her friend up the stairs, Quinn chews on her lip and pads up the plush white-carpeted staircase after Santana. It's not that she dislikes Santana's parents at all (she actually likes Lori and Hector a lot, as they're exponentially more friendly their daughter); it's just that right now she's not in the mood to be put through the paces of politeness. Either way, she's relieved that Santana understands and is whisking her away to her bedroom where they can have some privacy.

She hasn't been around for months – nearly an entire year – but the turn around the corner at the landing is still familiar to Quinn. The entire route down the hallway still is, and she's strangely relieved to find upon entering Santana's room that it's still as she remembered it. The royal blue comforter is still on the bed, and the Amy Winehouse poster is still there on the wall next to the beaded curtain leading to the closet.

"Take off your coat," Santana suggests, trudging over to the bed and flopping down on her stomach. "Stay a while."

Quinn concedes wordlessly, shrugging off her coat and tossing it over the back of the desk chair. She automatically takes her place sitting cross-legged on the bed next to Santana; it's like the awkward silence during Quinn's pregnancy never happened. Still, beneath the comfort of the familiar setting is the undefinable distress writhing within Quinn's ribcage. She's mute and dry-eyed now, but she feels hiccupping tears just on the verge. Something snapped in her tonight, and she feels like she might die if she has to be alone.

"So." Santana rolls over onto her back and looks up at Quinn searchingly. "You want to tell me what's going on with you tonight?"

Instead of answering, Quinn blurts "Where's Brittany?" It's strange for Santana to be at home relaxing in comfy clothes on a Friday night; she and her blonde best friend are practically joined at the hip, and Quinn is surprised that they're not at least having a movie night or something together.

She's greeted with an eye roll. "Out with Trevor Olber, if you'd believe it. Trevor fucking Olber. If I'd have known my Britts was into underbites I'd have set her up with my Tia's English bulldog Terrence."

_Her_ Britts. Quinn is sure her friend hadn't meant to say it like that. The slip-up gives Quinn such painfully acute déjà vu that she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment.

"Hey, are you okay?" Quinn opens back up to find Santana sitting up and gazing at her with a worried expression.

"I don't think so," she mumbles, feeling the hollow space between her nose and eyes beginning to sting.

"Is this about your date with Sam?" Santana asks firmly. "What happened?"

"It's not…" Quinn starts, about to say that this has nothing to do with Sam. But it sort of does – if anything, everything that happened with Sam tonight has made her realize how pathetic she really is; even when she tries to be a coward and hide behind a beard she fails at _that_ too. "I don't know." She exhales and just says it. "He's gay, Santana."

She doesn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't for Santana's eyes to narrow. "He let spill right on the first date? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Wait, _what_?" Quinn's brain skips a beat. She practically gapes at her friend in disbelief. "Are you saying you already _knew_ about this?"

Santana shrugs. "Puck told me. He's the only one Sam told, and he just wanted to help the poor guy out. Asked me to help set him up with a Cheerio who would make him look straight and stuff."

Quinn just stares. For some reason, she feels incredibly violated. "You organized this?" she demands.

"Hey, it was just a suggestion!" Santana defends. "I just told Puck to have Blondie ask you, there's no need to get so cheesed off at me."

"Why the _fuck_," Quinn explodes, feeling her ears burning and her pulse pounding, "would you think I'd want to be set up as some gay boy's beard? In what universe would you think that would be something I'd get a kick out of?"

"I thought I was doing you a _favor_!" Santana yells back, face twisting up in righteous indignation. "Jesus, calm the fuck down. I figured the two of you could actually help one another out!"

"What do I need help with?" Quinn shouts, not caring that her throat is scratching from the volume or that her eyes look wide and crazed. "I'm doing _fine_." By now she's standing, but she doesn't remember getting to her feet. Santana remains sitting on the bed, staring up at her friend with a mixture of irritation, worry, and pity.

"I was thinking about your reputation," the brunette spits back. "And I seem to be the only one in this room who is doing so lately, if you ask me."

"You act like I think about anything else," Quinn retorts bitterly. She can feel her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms as she stands there, not a person but just one big pulsing red-alert heartbeat or one big raw throat throttled by the onset of saline tears. "My reputation may be all I've got," she goes on, voice jaggedly rising in pitch, "but I don't need your _help_ getting myself smothered so deep in the closet I never find my way out!"

Immediately Quinn claps a hand to her mouth. Her glistening wet eyes widen. No not again please not again not twice in one fucking night she's not ready this is all happening too fa-

"It's okay," comes Santana's voice, firm but gentle. "I know."

They hold eye contact for a few moments and Santana gestures for Quinn to have a seat back on the bed. The blonde skittishly complies, feeling like some wild horse shushed and soothed into a stall. Following the sentence dropped clumsily from her lips she feels terrified and just wants to run as far away as she can, but she's even more afraid of where she'll end up. She'll be alone again, and tonight that feeling is becoming an even worse threat than anyone in all of McKinley finding out her secret. Alone, tonight, is worse than out, and it's what's keeping her rooted on top of the royal blue comforter. Santana is trustworthy, and more importantly she is another human being's warm body, and Quinn is clinging to that.

The brunette senses the hyperventilation moments away in Quinn's body language and moves to reach under her bed. "Here." Her right arm hooks and fishes under as she leans back, then she resurfaces with a large clear bottle in her hand. It's a half-empty handle of vodka. "Have a swig of this." Quinn eyes the bottle skeptically. "It'll _help_," Santana urges.

Quinn hesitates for a moment but eventually reaches for the bottle – it can't hurt now. If anything, it might help. Unscrewing the plastic cap, she brings it to her lips – a whiff of the liquid's overwhelming alcoholic scent causes her to wince – and takes a generous drink. It burns going down as she knew it would, and she pulls a face as it settles like a snake in her stomach. Already Quinn feels her muscles loosening ever so slightly.

"Q, I've known you're gay for a while now." Santana reaches across the comforter and picks up the handle, taking a swig of the vodka for herself. She smacks her lips appreciatively, making a sound as slick and wet as they are. "I know you're gonna freak about being 'obvious' or whatever, but I want you to know it's not even pure gaydar that clued me in – and I doubt anyone at school besides Hummel's got theirs tuned up worth shit. I figured it out cause I know you so well, and that's a privilege I know you haven't bestowed upon more than a few people. Your secret's safe."

"I don't know why I was even surprised," Quinn replies woodenly. Really, she should have figured Santana would know already. Her friend is so perceptive – especially when it comes to Quinn – that it makes perfect sense. "I guess it's just instinct for me to freak out."

"I get that." Santana nods solemnly. She glances down at her hands. "You're all bottled up. I know this whole situation really makes you anxious, and you were never really ready to talk. That's why I never pushed. I just figured I'd try and help you out by doing what I could to arrange a cover-up for you. You and me…" The brunette sighs, her mouth sagging downwards sadly. "…we've got a lot in common. I know this whole high school thing is vicious and shitty, and that's why we've got to do what we can to survive. We need to try and look normal, and that's where these guys come in."

Quinn draws a shaky breath and takes a good look at her friend. She supposes she's known all along that Santana likes girls too, but she was always afraid to confront it. It was always one of those things that was sort of out of sight, out of mind. Now, though, the other big gay elephant has been brought into the forefront, and Quinn looks more closely at the brunette. Santana looks just as unhappy as Quinn does, but she seems about twice as sure of herself and half as lost. "You're as scared of being out as I am," Quinn points out. "How is it that you're so… _calm_ about this?"

Santana shakes her head with a rueful smile. Before answering, she seems to think about it over another pull from the bottle of vodka. "It's because I know this whole thing won't matter as soon as we graduate," she replies, her voice somewhat thick in the immediate aftermath of what appeared to be a full shot. "I've separated high school shit from my own shit. Fuck, I _love_ myself – I just know the majority of the redneck homophobes at McKinley wouldn't feel the same. There's a difference between hating yourself and doing what you have to do to keep safe in the fucked up system. And _that_, Q," she finishes, pointing a shrewd finger right at Quinn, "is the difference between you and me."

"Give me that," Quinn mutters, reaching hastily for the bottle again. It's not exactly easy hearing someone else directly address her self-loathing. With less abandon than the last time, she grabs the neck and gulps down some more of the acidic-tasting stuff, doing her best to ignore the way it makes her feel like she's going to throw up. She gasps after finishing, feeling her eyes brimming with tears. Yeah, she definitely feels it now. Santana looks mildly concerned but doesn't say anything; her expression reads of more understanding than anything else.

"So what about Brittany?" Quinn asks bluntly. She's known about what goes on between her two friends from the beginning but has never directly said anything about it, going by their example and figuring it's just one of those things best left in secret. Now, though, something nagging at the edges of her conscious wants to know, wants to hear that they've got a chance.

Santana, for her part, looks taken aback for only a moment before wiping her face clean of expression. "What _about_ Brittany?" she challenges nonchalantly.

"Well, I mean," Quinn persists. "You guys are _with_ each other. Where does she fit into all this?"

Santana laughs humorlessly. "We're not with each other, Q. It'd be really nice if that was the case, but the reality is that I'm a very much _closeted_ lesbian and Brittany likes guys. She's gonna get with who she wants, and even if she wanted it to be me it could never happen."

Quinn frowns. She doesn't know why she feels herself panicking for her friend's sake; maybe it's because Santana, braver and more well-adjusted, represents her hope for ever having something good for herself. "So you'd throw it all away in favor of some guy who means nothing to you?"

"Please," Santana scoffs. "You're one to talk. Come see me when you're walking down the hallway holding hands with Berry in front of everyone."

_That_ has an immediate effect. "Don't talk about her," Quinn snarls, getting back to her feet in an act of defense as though she's some cornered animal. Some nerve deep down has been not only touched but plucked like a bassline.

"Why not?" Santana retorts, eyes glowing testily, as she hoists herself off her side of the bed and to the same level as Quinn. "You know I'm right. You're so hard up for her it's pathetic, but you're too chickenshit to do _ever_ do a damn thing about it because you're scared of the backlash. You're letting yourself get fucked over just as much as I am so you can save your own skin." By now the Latina has circled over to foot of the bed, getting herself more in Quinn's face.

"Maybe I am!" Quinn screams, completely devoid of any self-control at this point and surging forward until she's inches away from Santana. The brunette jumps, startled by her friend's sudden outburst. Everything that Santana said is right, completely and totally true, and that's pushed Quinn to the brink. It feels like she may have snapped. "And so what?" She flings an arm out in a wild gesture. "What difference does it make if I'm in love with her? Is anything going to fucking _happen_?"

Santana's expression, at once challenging and stubborn, softens as she stares at Quinn. "Oh, sweetie," she says sadly, pitying realization washing her features. It's an expression and tone of voice Quinn has never seen or heard before, and it makes her feel sick to her stomach.

"You're right," she continues shrilly, on a roll and swallowing thickly. "It doesn't matter what I feel because it's fucking pointless. It could never work because she's straight and I'm a coward. Are you happy now?"

They face each other at a stand-still for a moment, Quinn's manic-looking eyes brimming with tears and Santana's mouth hanging open with sympathetic shock. Finally, as Santana stares at her at a loss for words, it hits Quinn what she'd said. _What difference does it make if I'm in love with her?_

_In love with her?_

"Fuck," Quinn breathes, shoulders slumping. "I'm in love with Rachel." She speaks in a daze, almost in awe of the statement as it falls from her lips. It's as though it came from another person entirely, as foreign as it feels. The power of the omission leaves her skin feeling tingling-numb.

"It's really to that point?" Santana's brows are knit together in worry. "Quinn, I… I didn't know you felt that way. I didn't know it was like that."

"Neither did I," Quinn replies bitterly. "You know how I am about denial, I just couldn't let it be true. Kept making up all these excuses for why it was something other than what it really was, too terrified to actually face facts. Now it's crept up on me, and guess what?" Her lips pull back in the charade of a smile as she chokes out a sound half laugh and half sob. "I'm head over heels in love with her and it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

Santana looks almost pained by the weight of sympathy she holds. She looks like she wants to say something comforting, but she doesn't know what. Probably because, Quinn can guess, she knows there are no words that can really soothe this. It is what it is and it sucks.

"I'm sorry," is all Santana says. Dark eyes creased and looking tired, she flops back down on the bed and reaches again for the bottle where she'd left it. After taking an absentminded swig, she levels Quinn with a blearily morose gaze. "It's the shittiest thing to happen to you when you're in the closet, _especially_ if the other person is straight."

"That's what kills me," Quinn spits in frustration, running a hand through her hair. She begins to pace back and forth. "That something like falling in love can feel like pure hell. It's supposed to be the most beautiful feeling you can ever have, you know? That feeling you hear about in love songs and can't wait to experience for yourself." Quinn gives another bark of derisive laughter, feeling herself unraveling slightly. "I always thought it would be like that Katy Perry song _Teenage Dream_, that it would be romantic and adventurous and wonderful. But it's _not_, it's just wanting and hiding and never having her. It's a teenage fucking _nightmare_." She could almost lash out at a wall right now but instead she curls her fists helplessly at her sides. There's too much desperation and upset in her body, and it surges in a burst of white-hot heat up to the tip of her scalp before dissipating. She sighs and drops down on the bed next to Santana, all the fight gone out of her.

"I think I'm just going to end up alone," she mumbles, voice thick from the tears in her mouth. She picks up the handle of vodka – only a quarter full by now – and halfheartedly takes another drink, wincing as it goes down and gasping as she breathes in the aftermath. It's hard to remember how much she's drunk by now. Her head is a little fuzzy.

"Don't say that," Santana says gently, putting her arm around Quinn. The physical warmth itself is soothing. "Listen, the situation is shitty right now, but it isn't forever. Your future is better than you think it is, and so are you. You're amazing." She gives Quinn's shoulder a squeeze for emphasis. "You've got the power to turn it around, and you're gonna get that love you deserve. We both are, I know it."

Quinn turns her head to look directly at her friend and bites her lip. She's never heard Santana speak so tenderly, but she knows with hardly a second thought that she can trust her. They may have had their ups and downs, but at the end of the day Santana is the most reliable and fiercely loyal friend she's got. She even manages to comfort Quinn at her lowest, giving her a sliver of hope and at the very least the knowledge that she's not completely alone. Quinn has never been more grateful for any friend in her life than she is in this moment. Her clear hazel eyes anchor deep brown, meaning to communicate humble gratitude and betraying at the same time the sheer terrified vulnerability that remains now that everything else has been stripped of her.

They stare at one another for a moment, caught in a standstill. Santana licks her lips pensively, regarding Quinn. Her gaze flickers to the blonde's mouth, and she leans forward slowly but with assured confidence. Quinn's mind is a blank asterisk as the gap is closed (could it be she's done so of her own automatic accord?) and she feels Santana's lips softly pressing to hers. Her eyes fall shut immediately. They're _kissing_.

This is Quinn's first kiss with a girl. That's what registers most potently through the thick curtain of shock, and fuck, girl kisses are _worlds_ better than boy kisses. Quinn is absolutely astounded by how small and how incredibly soft Santana's mouth feels – boys' clumsiness and roughness don't even compare – as cinnamon lips press warmly against her own. Three seconds of chaste contact is enough to convince Quinn without a doubt that there's no way she could be anything but a lesbian; in this moment it's a soothing and completely unromantic gesture and it's _still_ a thousand times better than kissing any of her past boyfriends. Yeah, she's definitely gay.

Going purely off of instinct, Quinn brings up her hand and cups Santana's face. As the brunette responds with a hand on her knee, Quinn sighs and tentatively kisses back. She feels her fingers trembling ever so slightly on Santana's cheek, impossibly close to her own face, and finds herself getting drunk on the inability to stop the tremors or the pounding of her own heart. Maybe that's why this is happening; they are kind of drunk after all, aren't they? The buzz from the vodka swims reaffirmingly behind Quinn's dark eyelids, and her head spins even more than it had been before. But it's not just a drunk thing; Quinn knows that this kiss is also a comfort thing, an "I'm here for you" thing. It's a gesture of mutual loneliness because they're both here in this moment. Neither wants the other as more than a friend, and Quinn knows that. Santana's just helping her to feel better the best way that she knows.

Still, that doesn't mean that the kiss doesn't feel utterly delicious. Quinn knows that this is her best friend here, but that doesn't stop the shudder from traveling down her spine as Santana sighs into her mouth. Quinn nips gently at the brunette's swollen bottom lip, reveling in the glossy-warm feeling of another female mouth against her own. She knows she shouldn't enjoy it so much, kissing a girl, and that she could go to hell for it, but… Quinn can't shake the sense that it feels right. It's something she can actually see herself getting used to.

Just as slowly and hesitantly as they'd joined together, Santana and Quinn pull back. At a few inches' distance Quinn's eyes flutter open to find the brunette's dilated pupils searching her own. She lets her hand drop from Santana's face.

"Thanks," Quinn says simply, voice coming a little breathy and hoarse. She still needs to properly catch her breath.

Santana smiles, cheeks somewhat flushed and rosy from the alcohol and the kiss. "It was my pleasure."

Tearing her gaze away, Quinn expels a jet of air from between her lips and checks the time on her phone: eleven-twenty. Her curfew is midnight. "Fuck, it's getting late," she curses.

"Stay over," Santana offers easily, shrugging her shoulders.

Quinn bites her lip. "I don't know…" she responds absently, thinking of her mom and how she'll react if she comes home to a dark and daughter-less house.

"Oh shush," Santana scoffs, "That was a one time thing, just now. I'm not about to scissor your timbers or anything."

"I know that," the blonde replies wryly, leveling her friend with a '_seriously'_ look. "It's just that my mom would worry."

"Call or text her then." Santana busies herself with replacing the handle of vodka in its hiding spot under the bed.

Quinn mulls it over for a second, then shrugs. "Why the hell not." Judy probably won't care either way, regardless of whether or not she hears from Quinn.

"That's the spirit. You can borrow some sweats for PJs and there's a spare toothbrush for you in my medicine cabinet. Have at 'er."

Ten minutes later her teeth are brushed, the lights are off, and she's lying on the right side of Santana's bed, the side closest to the window. It's barely midnight but between the alcohol and the yelling and the crying, they're exhausted. Especially Quinn. They'd agreed to call it a night and crawled into Santana's bed. The two girls lie comfortably on either side of the queen-sized mattress, and for once Quinn finds herself relishing the absence of anxiety from putting herself in this position. She can never usually handle sleeping in the same bed as other girls at sleepovers, so intimately close, but tonight it feels okay. She and Santana have come to a profound sort of understanding with one another tonight, and as she lies on her side staring through the windowpanes out at the moon, Quinn can feel a shift in the presumed natural order of things. First Sam, now Santana. Quinn has no idea what's coming next, but she has an inkling that it's going to be different.

Her thoughts flash to Rachel. The more that things change like this, the less sure Quinn is how her tiny brunette friend fits into all of it. Only tonight Quinn had realized and admitted to herself that no, she didn't know it all along, but she does have feelings for Rachel. She's in _love_ with her. The realization also occurred that such feelings are ill-fated, but though that may be true, she keeps coming back to something Santana had said to her. Quinn may never have Rachel, but maybe she can have herself.

Maybe, Quinn muses as she feels herself drifting off, it's time for something to change.


	19. Chapter 19: The Other Lockers

_**Author's Note**: I have one word for you: opinions. Please._

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><p>Quinn doesn't hear from Rachel all weekend. That makes three whole days that this fight has been going on, and she has mixed feelings about the silence. Primarily, it hurts; no amount of pride or self-sufficiency on Quinn's part can change the fact that Rachel means a lot to her, and the tiny brunette's absence is sorely felt. Quinn curses herself for being so cliché and so needy, but not talking to Rachel feels as awful as having to go without her sight or the use of her hands. At least now, though, she has the peace of mind of having an explanation for that sensation – and all the others – ever since coming to terms with her feelings for Rachel. And that's where she is of two minds; this <em>does<em> suck, but at the same time, this time and space apart has allowed Quinn to come to terms with the harsh epiphany she'd had at Santana's on Friday night.

That weekend, aside from Cheerios practice, Quinn spends a lot of time to herself, lost in thought. She can't believe she'd been so obtuse, thinking that she could chalk up things with Rachel to some sort of displaced lesbian confusion, at most. Denial is an understatement. No, she was – is, and has been virtually all along – head over heels for the tiny brunette. One third of the time it saddens her – predictably so, given the hopelessness of the crush. One third of the time it scares her to death – predictably so, both having never felt such strong and sudden feelings for anyone before and now knowing she's irrevocably gay. But one third of the time she thinks about her feelings for Rachel and just smiles. It's like all of her nerve endings and tendons and bone marrows had been tensed up, staying stiff and keeping this attraction a secret from her, and now that they've relaxed and let her know about it, she's feeling in love _viscerally_. For the first time she thinks about Rachel as the girl she's in love with, and sees her as that too. It's those moments where she thinks, _I'm in love with Rachel Berry_ (it had repeated and recycled itself nonstop over the weekend), and instead of the other sixty-six percent of reactions, she follows up with, _And why shouldn't I be? Just look at her_. And those nerve endings and tendons and bone marrows let her picture those expressive pink lips curving around the second verse of another breathtaking solo, and isn't she just so talented and _beautiful_.

That's about the part in that train of thought when Quinn puts her elbow in the butter dish and Judy looks taken aback, wondering when she's ever seen her daughter so out of sorts over breakfast.

Quinn doesn't think she's ever been so out of sorts, during breakfast or any other meal.

Because if there's anything she's more lost in thought about than Rachel, it's what Santana said to her on Friday.

The thinly-veiled accusations that she hates herself don't sit well with Quinn. They don't digest. They rumble and gurgle in protest in the pit of her stomach, calling on her pride to dismiss the claim. There's no way that she's got this internalized homophobia going on, she's just trying her best to hide her secret from everyone else's _externalized_ homophobia. _She_ doesn't have any issues, it just doesn't mesh. Captain of the Cheerios and all-around most popular girl in school, full of hidden self-loathing? Impossible. Then again, the same would be said about that same girl being a full on lesbian, and now look at her.

Still, her popularity is what Quinn goes back to over and over again in this looping thought process. If her problems aren't with herself, then they ultimately trace back to her reputation. The self-inflicted side effects come from an obsession with keeping herself wanted, feared, and revered – or, at the very least, immune from ridicule. She's got it in a vice grip now, and if people found out she's gay then it would slip through her fingertips. She's sure of it. It _has_ to be true, or else all of the obsessing and anxieties would be for nothing. But what if it's simpler than that? The ghost of an idea flits around her mind, so tentatively hopeful that it quickens her pulse and scares her to death whenever she thinks about it. It's too easy. But what if… what if Quinn's reputation isn't a fragile thing to protect, but a fortified shield that could protect _her_? It blows her mind that she hadn't thought it before, and she knows it has to be too good to be true, but isn't it possible that she could come out of the closet untouched because she's so popular?

Would the slushie showers turn to her, as she's been expecting all along? Or might her status hold more sway than she thought it could, possibly pioneering homosexuality at McKinley as an acceptable thing?

There's just no way to know. Still, that doesn't stop Quinn from obsessing over the thought. In between bouts of Rachel-Berry-themed musings, she just can't get it out of her head. Even though it's surely and positively a shot in the dark, doomed to never succeed or see fruition, Quinn can't stop dwelling on the possibilities. The idea of being open about her sexuality… it's such a far-fetched sort of dream, distant and glittering, wonderful and impossible. It's strange; for the longest time, Quinn had never even let it enter into her head that she could be out of the closet in high school (the repercussions all too severe), but now the freedom of it is all she longs for. More than she longs for Rachel.

Attaining either is incredibly unrealistic, though, so for now Quinn just daydreams about it.

Monday finally rolls around, and Quinn starts her day when the sun does, sleepily meeting the sluggish egg-yolk sun on her way to practice as it begins to creep up the horizon. There was once a time before cheerleading when Quinn had thought of sunrises as romantic, but since the passing of countless crack-of-dawn Cheerios practices, the sight has become something passé.

"How are you doing today?" Santana asks her later as they sit clustered with Brittany in a trio on the gymnasium floor, bending and stretching their hamstrings. Other small pockets of cheerleaders freckle the glossy wooden floor, preparing their bodies for the next hour and a half of grueling exertion.

Quinn leans over her outstretched leg thoughtfully. "Good," she replies. "I'm better." She means it, too; no matter how she's feeling (usually it's sour) she always responds the same, more often than not lying, but today it's the truth. Santana can tell, and as she bends forward to touch her toes she shoots her friend a small smile of satisfaction over the tops of her white sneakers. Santana's a grouch, but Quinn knows that it doesn't take much – fixing things or an honest answer – to make her happy.

"Brittany, how was your weekend?" Quinn turns conversationally to the girl on her right.

"Oh, it was nice," the blonde replies nonchalantly as she spreads her legs on either side of her and leans forward to touch the floor in between. "I went out with Trevor O. on Friday and that was really fun." Still bent over, she slides and stretches further until her front is pressed to the floor.

Quinn stares incredulously for a moment at Brittany's near-impossible flexibility before she turns and meets Santana's eyes; the brunette purses her lips and Quinn smiles sympathetically. Santana mirrors the expression sheepishly.

"You guys will never _guess_ how big his Jacuzzi is," Brittany continues obliviously, still flat against the floor as though her position is effortless.

"Well," Quinn replies quickly, shifting her body weight, "I would really love to hear about it but I think we've gotta line up for lunges now." She doesn't want to hear it, or rather, doesn't want Santana to hear it; in light of their conversation on Friday night, she wants to spare her friend the hurt of having to sit through those gory details. Quinn pushes to her feet in one fluid motion, and the others follow her lead. As Cheerio captain, it's her job to oversee the stretching routines and warmups and whatnot before Coach Sylvester starts the body of practice at six-twenty – and right now she couldn't be more grateful for the authority that allows her to cut short Brittany's anecdote before it begins.

"Hey." Santana comes up behind Quinn as they and the rest of the girls – summoned by a swift bark from the blonde – move towards the far end of the gym. She puts a soft hand on Quinn's shoulder and whispers discretely in her ear: "Thanks for that." Quinn turns to Santana and smiles, pleasantly surprised by the nearness of her friend. Santana had never been so tender before in passing gestures of friendship or gratitude, but of course things have changed. There's been a shift in dynamics between them, a slight shift towards intimacy ever since their kiss, and Quinn finds that she likes the safe and comfortable thrill of Santana's touch.

"You're welcome," she replies simply, and Santana returns her smile as she walks away toward the others.

A little over an hour and a half later, Quinn breezes down the hallway in the five minute before the start of class, calf muscles feeling like slippery cuts of raw meat that nearly slide off her legs as she walks. Today's practice was a killer; they ran suicides for the better part of an hour while Coach Sylvester sat on the bleachers balancing her checkbook.

"I have an urgent adult responsibility," she'd proclaimed through her megaphone, distraction replacing a bit of her usual officious bite. "And it is a more worthy use of my time than praying that this may finally be the day that my bases can competently hold and support the meaty cankles of my fliers. Therefore, today will be a 'work off those weekend calories' day." So they'd run, and run, and run; Quinn scrambled amongst the dogged ranks on the slick floor, sneakers squeaking and lungs screaming in protest, as the megaphone blared across the gymnasium: "Pick up those sloppy buns, hustle! This isn't after-school Food Court cruising, ladies, and as I'm not the cute boy at Jamba Juice a lazy stroll won't impress me. I want to see _rivers_ of sweat; if I have to suffer the anguish of long division then you're all going to suffer too."

It may be painful, but at least Quinn _can_ walk to her locker right now; she dwells on this as she does so, grateful that the worst she got out of this morning's practice was a pair of jelly-legs and not the collapses that befell several of her underlings. Besides, the ache feels good in its own way – she finds it's usually pretty satisfying to be on the other end of a grueling practice, having got it over with and being rewarded with muscles that are painfully sore, but almost proud in a way that says, "Yeah, I worked for this. It shows, too."

And does it ever show. Quinn's lean, taut body, every bit as trim as it was pre-baby, clearly indicates her natural tendency towards athleticism. She knows how good she looks – if she lacked a lucid sense of self-awareness, the hordes of drooling male admirers would have tipped her off in no time – but she knows so in a shrugging, matter-of-fact way… nothing like the unapologetic cockiness of her friend Santana. Quinn's stuck in that strange no-man's-land of body confidence where she knows she's "hot" enough to get boys to do what she wants them to, but never actually sees herself capable of attracting the sort of "mate" she really wants. It always boils down to, _what girl would be into me_? And, more recently, _it's not like I'd ever be desirable to Rachel anyway_.

Tugging textbooks out of her locker, Quinn pauses slightly and frowns. She was having such a good morning so far – things felt hopeful, _different_ – and then she had to think about Rachel. Her wretchedness is at times intrinsically delicious in its longing, but it's becoming downright unbearable. The unpleasantness of her crush bloomed significantly once those feelings were realized; it's unusual for anything to be unattainable to Quinn, and she _hates_ that. No, she needs to get over this thing for Rachel if she ever wants to get her sanity back (if she ever had it to begin with) and work towards some kind of progress.

Speak of the devil; Quinn turns around to head off towards first period Spanish (really, the worst way to start the day) and spots Rachel at her own locker down the hall. Dressed in a pretty burgundy skirt with a cream-colored blouse, Rachel fastidiously scrawls notes on her locker-sized magnet calendar. Quinn smiles fondly, then realizes she's staring. She shakes herself from her reverie and without hesitation marches to Spanish.

Quinn extended the olive branch already and got blown off. If Rachel wants to patch things up then _she's_ going to have to come to _Quinn_. The blonde's unshakeable pride demands it.

Totally absorbed in her calendar, Rachel doesn't even look up when Quinn walks by. She's disappointed that Rachel doesn't call her name or go after her – more disappointed than she'd care to admit – but Quinn knows with a sort of sober teenage awareness that this silly fight needs to properly run its course. Sighing as she takes her seat in Mr. Schuester's classroom, Quinn once again curses the customs and rituals of high-school-girl fights. She would curse everything high school, but she's not feeling quite so jaded today.

"Buenos dias, estudiantes." Schuester rubs his hands together with the eagerness found only in younger, unspoiled teachers. The class mumbles a garbled, memorized response; they know a zeal for learning is useless even if he doesn't.

Undeterred, the teacher launches into an introduction of the past perfect tense. Quinn yawns but flips open her Spanish notebook dutifully. Another typical day begins.

It seems typical at first, at least; like clockwork, Finn Hudson dozes off back in the last row with his chin propped up on the heel of his hand, and Melissa Winkler's cell phone chirps up in the second row. Schuester sighs as he turns from the board, shooting the guilty-looking girl a beleaguered look.

"You know the drill, Melissa," he says, switching back to English, and circles around his desk to reach for the phone.

Melissa Winkler, a helpless gossip wearing her boyfriend's Billabong hoodie, sneaks a peek at the phone's screen before handing it over. Everyone in the classroom watches with a bored but hungry sort of interest (isn't it nice when someone else gets in trouble) that piques when her eyes go wide.

"Oh my god," she gasps, fumbling her phone as she transfers it to Schuester's waiting hand.

"Gracias," he says dryly, and as Quinn wonders curiously what juicy tidbit had caused Melissa's outburst she hears another chirp, this time from behind her. Schuester barely registers and turns towards the second offending sound before the room erupts in alerts.

Every student's cell phone goes off, it seems, at once. Quinn has never witnessed anything like it; her own phone vibrates noisily in her lap amidst a staggered chorus of beeps, tweets, and buzzes – she even hears a faint "Like A G-6" ringtone in the background.

"Estudiantes!" Mr. Schuester yells over the pandemonium of the mass text. He can't confiscate _all_ of their phones, and one by one Quinn's bewildered classmates pull out and read their devices.

Exclamations of "Woah," and "No way!" echo throughout the classroom like little fireworks. Ravenously curious, Quinn looks down to the phone in her lap as Schuester gets the class quieted down. It's a text from an unidentified number, a chain message; she reads through the blaring words on the screen twice, blankly uncomprehending, before she feels her stomach completely drop out.

_Just in this morning: Lezbos on the Varsity Cheerio Squad? Pinky-linking "Best Friends" spotted Locking Lips after resolving a Lovers' Quarrel in the locker room, says eyewitness. Guess who, McKinley? –__**J. B. Israel **_

"That's enough!" Schuester repeats, perplexed by the sudden text explosion but determined to have order, and the class acquiesces and settles into a restless silence. After a few seconds, he eyeballs his students warily and returns to his lesson.

Quinn's notebook lays forgotten on her desk as Mr. Schuester continues explaining verb conjugation; she, like a good number of other students, sits with her eyes glued to her lap and rereads the message. She's sure she's the only one, however, that feels a bright and icy finger of fear pressing her spine. It's clearly Brittany and Santana, it just has to be; she can count on more than half of the chain message's recipients to know that too. The obvious intimacy of the two cheerleaders' friendship had always been cause for Sapphic speculation around the school, but it had never been more than halfhearted, half-baked, and not taken seriously. For one thing, Brittany and Santana have been with more guys between the two of them than the rest of the squad combined. For another, even with the paranoia that runs rampant with teenagers, no one ever really believes that someone is gay. Aside from the school's token gay kid – in this case Kurt – it's innocent unless proven guilty with everyone else… as though with murder.

But just like a convicted murderer, it seems that Brittany and Santana have been handed the death penalty – in the form of this text. It's certain social ruination for the two of them, and as the clock on the wall ticks ponderously Quinn feels herself begin to unravel with worry. The student body will have a complete field day with this new information, and the two cheerleaders will be ripped to shreds. Brittany might be naïvely fearless enough to brush it all off, but she can't be immune enough for both of them when Santana's been running from this for years. Besides, confidence can only go so far once whispers evolve into corn syrup baptisms; something about the slushie stains, the jeers, and the utter _degradation_ just sort of break a person. Thinking about it happening to her best friends makes Quinn want to throw up.

Almost worse – selfishly so – is how close to home this fiasco hits. Quinn glances around her and feels the subtle whispering closing in on all sides; _this_ is how it would be if it was her. This is how it would start, at least. Complete strangers buzzing about her deepest fears and darkest secrets, gleefully picking her apart at the first hint of spilled blood. Yes, first are the whispers; next are the stares, once they get a little braver; then come the snide remarks, the name-calling, the jokes, when everyone's had a little time to think them up. Every Gossip Girl wannabe will be sitting in their bedroom at night, furiously brainstorming new creative ways to call someone a dyke. That's the inevitable order of things; the onslaught will happen with poor Brittany and Santana, and Quinn will witness it all with a horrible dream-like sympathy panic. With the dark, surreal knowledge that it's her own fate.

Because that's the inevitable order of things, isn't it?

Quinn sits anxiously through the remainder of class, nauseous with worry as the time seems to drag on and on. She needs to find Santana and Brittany, to make sure they're alright. The trio may have had their ins and outs with one another, but at the end of the day they're best friends. Quinn's need to go to the other two is so dire that it almost drags her out of the classroom before the bell rings. She hasn't thought of Rachel once during the entire hour.

The bell finally does ring, and Quinn springs out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box. Her heartbeat quickens again; things quieted down during class, but that was when they were all stuck silent and fidgeting. Students pour into the hallways, and the charge of excitement in the air is palpable. The shifting crowds are rich with chatter:

"-you hear that two Cheerios are apparently gay for each other-"

"-don't know if I believe it but that's so completely _fucked-_"

"-couple of lesbians on the cheerleading-"

"-Santana Lopez is-"

"-god, seriously hate to have to change in that locker room-"

Quinn forces down a lump in her throat and walks faster, blood pounding in her ears but still not drowning out the gossip. She hightails it towards Santana's locker; she _has_ to find them, when she finds them she can protect them or _some_thi-

And there they are. Quinn rounds the last corner and almost freezes when she sees the small crowd gathered around Santana's locker. In the middle, cornered against the lockers, are Santana and Brittany; Santana stands protectively in front of Brittany, who hugs her books to her chest and bites her lip anxiously. The brunette has her arms crossed forebodingly, but her eyes betray nervousness as they dart to and from the three jocks in front of her. They all wear predatory grins and hold slushies. Karofsky stands at front, an extra-large cup of what looks like Very Cherry gripped tight in his hand.

"-don't you just leave us alone," Quinn hears Santana challenge as she approaches. More people join the circle, pressing in to watch the scene; Quinn has to fight to get through them all.

"Why's that?" a large boy named Azimio calls out, flanking Karofsky. "You don't like guys or something?" Scattered laughter ripples through the crowd, and the two targeted cheerleaders look around uneasily.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" Quinn has finally edged her way through into the center of the circle, and she's surprised by how easily her steely tone of authority has masked the quavering worry that she feels. Santana and the jocks stare at her in shock, although the latter do so more stupidly than the former. Brittany looks relieved to see her.

"Q!" she calls out, as though Quinn has come to rescue her. Vaguely, through the rushing in her ears, Quinn supposes that that's exactly what she aims to do. How, she doesn't know. She has no plan. All she knows is that the sight of the Neanderthal cruelty in these jocks' eyes and on their mouths, especially in the crude weapons they hold, makes her blood boil. It's not fair. Neither she nor her friends did any harm in being gay – or bi, in Brittany's case – and to be punished for it isn't _fair_.

"I asked you a question, Karofsky," she demands, striding up in the middle of them so that Santana is on her left and Karofsky is on her right. Her voice has got the smooth, deadly tone to it that suits her position of authority so well; she may not do any bullying herself anymore, but she is still undoubtedly the queen bee. She is in her element like this, although she can feel her knees trembling.

David Karofsky looks from Quinn to Santana, uncertainty flickering in his dull hazel eyes. "About to give Tegan and Sara here a nice refreshing Cherry shower." He tries to sound intimidating and smug. Maybe Quinn hadn't heard about them yet.

"Tegan and Sara are _twins_, you fucking idiot," Quinn barks, eyes narrowing disdainfully. "_Sisters_. Quit trying to be clever and make lesbian references before you make yourself look even more stupid."

"Whatever," Azimio sneers as Karofsky squints meanly at Quinn. They both know better than to turn on her, but they're not trying to hide what they're thinking, and she can discern it clearly. They're thinking, "They're queer. They deserve it. You should know that." Yes, she _should_ know it. She _should_ know not to fuck with the normal order of things, but then again Santana looking so cornered and Brittany looking so troubled are so _not_ normal that Quinn can't give herself any other choice. She can do damage control and fix this just yet. Her mouth and mind, nimble of their own accord, go on autopilot (she always rises to the occasion better like that) to save this situation; for her friends' sake and for her own.

"Don't 'whatever' me, _Gerald_," Quinn hisses. Azimio reddens, embarrassed by the first name he tries to keep under wraps and ignore, and Quinn takes it in stride. She takes a deep breath to gather up steam and dismantle this opposition point by point. "You all seem to have forgotten that all slushie attacks need to be approved by me first, _no exceptions_."

"We couldn't find you," the third jock grumbles, a gangly football player with dark blond hair and pimples.

"You also seem to have forgotten," Quinn continues, ignoring the boy's weak protest, "that these girls you were about to douse are _varsity Cheerios_. Does that mean absolutely nothing to you? Have your brains all been scrambled crashing into one another over and over out on the field?" She stares at the three jocks one by one, pleased to see that her calm iciness has spooked the boys into uncertainty. Still, she notes with a small tremor of dark foreboding, they still hold their slushies ready. They still want to succumb to the morbid order of things, still smell blood in the water and want to pounce. They've been put in their place but Quinn knows by the look in their eyes that they're not convinced.

"They're still dykes," Karofsky growls, glaring haughtily at Brittany and Santana. They do a good job of keeping a stiff upper lip, but Quinn knows them well enough to see that they're afraid. Neither was ready for this – not what it's come to, and who could ever be ready for _this_? It's Santana's worst fear come to life, and Quinn's too. She shudders and licks her lips, driven by the twin madness of fear and loyalty to keep arguing. Gay is gay no matter what and in the instinctual logic of these jocks it's good enough to make a target, but Quinn is _not_ going to see her best friends get slushied.

"Yeah, says who?" She feels claustrophobic trapped in this small space, the fear she's been keeping at bay creeping up on her as the crowd watches hungrily. Rapids roar somewhere in her ear canal (in over her head she's in way over her head now) but she ignores that and all the eyes and keeps her gaze trained on Karofsky. "All this drama is based off of one tiny bullshit rumor that Israel got his desperate greedy hands on. You don't know that it's true. You don't have any _proof_, do you?"

The jocks are all silent, shifting in obvious uncertainty. Even the throng of students around them is somewhat hushed doubtfully. Quinn faces Karofsky head on, standing right between him and her friends. Her autopilot mind and mouth are taking her somewhere she knows she can never come back from, but she's trembling head to foot and feels that she's just _snapped_ because of it all.

"No," she continues, "You don't. What Israel does is slimy, but you're the ones who are _really_ desperate. You're so obsessed with finding punching bags that you'll attack two people who haven't even done anything _wrong_. So, you want a scapegoat? You're all absolutely dying to punish someone for being gay?" Quinn, in a sort of out-of-body experience where she watches herself from above, steps into Karofsky's personal space and stares him down. "Then dump that slushie on me because I _am_."

So this is how the moment of truth feels. She'd dreamed about it – or rather, had nightmares about it – for the majority of her teenage years. _Being outed_. It sure feels like she's dreaming now, and not because she'd just done the absolutely unthinkable and done it herself. Everything goes in slow motion, and it happens just like she'd imagined, right down to the gawking, craning faces of the observers and the paralyzed clenching of her own heart. She hears Brittany gasp, and feels Santana's hand on her arm, but the reactions she watches for are those of the jocks in front of her. The Goliaths to her David, as it would seem. They just gape at her, like everyone else packed in this pocket of the hallway. Vaguely Quinn wonders if Finn is watching. Or Rachel.

_Rachel._

"Go ahead, Karofsky," Quinn orders evenly, keeping cool and conscious when all she feels like doing is fainting. "Do it."

The large boy's mouth works open and shut, disbelief seeming to have shorted his circuits. His thick fingers squeeze the plastic cup they hold tight. The crowd has begun to buzz fervently.

_Oh dear Christ she's just outed herself_. Quinn feels like she's standing on a stage under a bright spotlight, a thousand eyes on her and watching her about to vomit, but she remains rooted in front of Karofsky.

"Come on," she challenges, "_Do it_." Her cold sweat is all that gives her away, but no one would know that anyway aside from Santana, who still clutches Quinn's arm as though the blonde could fall over any second. Azimio stares at Karofsky, who stares at Quinn (what is that, fear? respect?), who stares right back. Everyone else who's not texting or tweeting frantically stares at Quinn.

Suddenly, the bell rings, and just like that the eerie spell is broken. With a final piercing glare Karofsky shrugs and turns away, and the other jocks follow him down the hall. Azimio sips his extra-large Very Cherry. While the masses give the three cheerleaders lingering looks, Quinn is shocked to see how easily they disperse. A good number of stragglers drag their feet and gawk – some even take pictures with poorly-executed discretion – but after a few seconds everyone moves on. That's also the order of things: it might get heated in the hallway in between classes, but when the bell rings the priority is _always_ to get back to class. It's funny that she's dwelling on this pointless fact, perhaps it's to avoid thinking about what she just did.

"Quinn," comes Santana's voice from behind her. Quinn turns with a start and meets Santana's eyes, cautious and reverent and grateful and worried all at once. Brittany mirrors this. They both look at Quinn as though they don't know what to say and as if she could shatter at any second. She had almost forgotten that they were there.

"I told you I owed you one," she replies shakily, backing away slowly and shrugging. She feels a sort of numbness, an uncertainty as to how she should/can react; the same sensation is visible on the faces of Brittany and Santana, who look like they want to hug her but also look like they don't think she is real. As her friends continue to just stare at her in shock, Quinn turns wordlessly and disappears into the ever-moving river of students. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.


	20. Chapter 20: The Bench

_**Author's Note**: I'm so sorry this took so long oh my god. I was literally stuck on the same paragraph for a month. I hope you appreciate me getting this done, I missed a meeting because I was ten minutes late finishing this up. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE leave feedback!_

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><p>Quinn sits quietly on the floor, up against the ninety-degree angle where the smooth wooden slats of the floor meet the smooth wooden slats of the walls. She pretends to text on her phone – the brand new flip-phone that her parents had just given her – but really she's warily taking in all the activity that goes on under the high vaulted ceiling of the giant, cabin-like room. It's a hive of activity here in the mess hall; girls clustered in groups chatter together, eyeing one another, striking up conversations with new friends, jostling one another with their clumsy duffel bags or rolling suitcases. There are other girls who sit or stand off by themselves, girls like Quinn who have gone alone to Four Oaks and don't know anyone else.<p>

It's ridiculous given everything she's done recently and what she has to compare this moment to, but right now Quinn has never felt more insecure in her life. It's more potent than the last three years under the "Lucy Caboosey" mantle. Now, she sits on the floor in a giant rustic cafeteria packed full of a hundred queen bees. Someone took the prettiest and most popular girls just exiting middle schools across Ohio and put them all in this room. Staring around self-consciously at all the soffee shorts and tanned legs and junior-glossed lips, Quinn has never felt more overwhelmed by her own inadequacy. They're all so carefree and self-important in their burgeoning teenage beauty, gossiping and tossing ponytails. Any second some girl is going to look over, spot Quinn sitting there, and sound the alarm. She's an outsider here.

Reflexively, Quinn snakes an arm out around the plum-colored duffel bag that lies next to her, hugging it closer as though to sense through the canvas fabric the bits of makeup and prettier, _smaller_ clothes. It reassures her. She remembers that she's not some infiltrator sneaking around cheer camp with a pretty girl's mask; she's _Quinn_ now, and she belongs just as much as anyone else. It's her time for a fresh start.

Still, the normal nerves about sitting here alone and now knowing anyone are there. They're completely separate nerves, but they're still rather crippling. She hopes she makes some friends – maybe even girls who might go to her new school – and hopes that the nerves go away eventually.

"Girls!" a voice booms out. It's coming from a megaphone, and the megaphone belongs to one of the head counselors, an athletic but nondescript-looking woman in her thirties. It takes a few seconds, but the girls quiet down and listen. "Along with your nametags, you've all received a color. That color represents the cabin you'll be sleeping in for the next two weeks. There's a counselor in here with a sign for each cabin; find your cabin's counselor and she'll take you there to get you settled in. We'll see you all back here at five-thirty for the inaugural dinner."

The room erupts in chatter as the girls try to figure out where to go. White posterboard signs that say "BLUE", "PURPLE", "YELLOW", and seven other color names pop up over the heads in the crowd. Quinn remains sitting and fingers the nametag that sits in her lap; she turns it over to read it. It says, "QUINN FABRAY", and under it, "GREEN". It can't be too bad, she likes the color green well enough. She cranes her neck for a second, and when she spots the "GREEN" sign off across the mess hall she hoists herself to her feet, shoulders her one bag, and trudges off through the mass of girls. It's hard not to walk hunched, the way she always did whenever she didn't want to be noticed. But Quinn remembers that she doesn't have to fear being noticed now, and while she doesn't _strut_ over to her counselor, she holds her head up at an even height.

Once Quinn approaches the older girl who holds up the "GREEN" posterboard, she stands around aimlessly among the other ten girls who filter in. Half of them seem to know others in the group and talk excitedly, but the other half stands packed in patiently and quietly. The counselor is older, maybe a junior or senior in high school, and she stands maybe half a head taller than Quinn and her peers. Tanned and toned with reddish-brown hair and freckles, she mingles among the girls and takes attendance. After a little while, she smiles and approaches Quinn, who had been rehearsing what she would say for the past minute or so.

"Name?" the counselor asks once she's close enough, having to raise her voice over the din.

"Quinn Fabray." She notices as the girl leans in closer with her clipboard how her Four Oaks t-shirt strains against her chest. Instantly heat floods Quinn's face and as she gulps she's very aware of the older girl's close proximity. She glances away quickly, knowing it's wrong to look, and tries her very best to look casual. Something about being around or interacting with girls older than her makes her feel nervous and inadequate, as though she is intrinsically foolish for being a little kid. Or… something like that. Ashamed of the other all-too-familiar implications, she tries to squash the foreboding flip-flops this feeling makes her tummy do.

But just like that, the girl is gone. She finds Quinn's name on the list (the first time it's been used officially for anything), checks it off, and after offering a quick smile to the younger girl she moves on. Quinn stands there, shifting her weight restlessly from one foot to the other, and wills her stupid knot of nerves to go away; there's nothing to get so flustered about talking to cool older kids. The thought is meant for her to reassure herself, but instead it just makes her think that if that's true then there's something else going on. But she does not want to address that. A tan-skinned and sharp-eyed girl off to Quinn's left gives the counselor a weird ethnic-sounding name as Quinn forces herself to concentrate on thinking about things that are actually worrisome, like sleeping in a bunk-bed with some strange girl. Or worse… she'll have to change in front of about _ten_, won't she? The thought makes her stomach do that weird, heated turning-over thing again.

A wave of homesickness washes over Quinn. Maybe she wasn't meant to be a cheerleader.

* * *

><p>"I was starting to figure it out in eighth grade, but it wasn't until cheer camp the summer before freshman year that I think I knew for sure." Quinn looks at her hands and then up at the blackboard after her omission. After a second she turns back to Mercedes, curious to gauge her response.<p>

The other girl looks at Quinn with a mixture of respect and awe. The blonde was worried when Mercedes turned in her chair and began to ask her questions, not knowing concretely where she stood as a Christian on the whole gay thing, but she proved to be just an open-minded, curious friend, not one of the countless curious classmates who want to know because it's _juicy_. Mainly Quinn is just relieved that Mercedes is occupying her attention; when the teacher announced that with ten minutes left they could talk amongst themselves, Quinn was terrified of being trapped in a room with so many people ravenous to know about the bomb she'd dropped forty minutes ago. Now that she's occupied talking to someone else, she's not sitting alone practically inviting people to come up to her and barrage her with questions, or worse, stares.

"Quinn, I'm proud of you, girl," Mercedes repeats for about the third time. "I don't understand where this has come from all of a sudden, seeing as you're the last person I would have suspected to bat for the other team. But if you really have known for a few years now and have been keeping it all bottled up all along, it must be really liberating to let it all out."

"It's terrifying, more than anything," Quinn admits honestly. Her heartbeat, which hasn't slowed all the way back to normal speed for nearly an hour, is testament to that. Still, it helps to hear Mercedes say this, in addition to the similar sentiments expressed through text by Tina, Mike, and Artie amidst the barrage of apoplectically disbelieving texts from others.

"It's the people who think about giving you shit that should be terrified." The other girl quirks an eyebrow knowingly. Quinn can't help but smile faintly; even throughout all this people like Mercedes think Quinn is going to be as steely as ever. She supposes it's reassuring, the fact that she's not seen as weaker or target-worthy now that she's come out of the closet. She prays that it's not just Mercedes who thinks this, and she also prays that she'll have the strength to live up to it.

The bell finally rings, and after a genuinely fond goodbye to Mercedes Quinn heads off to her third period class, History. Moving through the cluttered hallway Quinn feels her skin crawl under the amorous, almost physical touch of the stares and whispers, but nobody confronts her or says anything to her. She can't figure out if this is because no one cares all that much or if the school at large is still too stunned to react, but regardless she prefers it this way. Better to cause bewilderment and be left alone than to cause derision and be, well… derided.

The next thing Quinn can't figure out, feeling very strangely matter-of-fact as she mulls it over, is whether or not she ought to take as much time as possible getting to class and get into her seat just as the bell rings (a moving target is harder to hit), or if she ought to hurry to the classroom as quickly as possible (things can't get ugly with the teacher in the room). She's torn between the two speeds, tugging the Honors History textbook and her spiral notebook out of her locker, when she remembers Rachel. This is the first class they have together. The thought of having to face her after this bomb has dropped makes Quinn's stomach churn, and she's overwhelmed all of a sudden by nervousness. What will Rachel say? Should Quinn say something first or just assume Rachel will come to her? Why hadn't she prepared herself for this? All she can do now is take a deep breath, shut her locker, head off to class and try to act natural.

Quinn arrives relatively early, so Rachel isn't there yet. Feeling anxious, Quinn sits in her desk primly and flips through her notebook, distractedly scanning Friday's notes as classmates trickle in. Every single one of them looks at her immediately and it makes her feel edgy – edgier than she already was, that is. It's so strange for her to think that just this time last Friday she was sitting in this chair, firmly affixed in the closet, and today every single one of them knows she's gay. They know she likes girls. How many of the boys who had drooled over her are now drooling over lesbian cheerleader fantasies?

She's jolted out of that headache when she sees Rachel walk into the classroom. The brunette breezes in with that carefree and self-important air that she always seems to possess in school settings, but as she crosses the front that falters when she meets Quinn's eyes. They share a look for several seconds, and Quinn's heart leaps. This is Rachel here, her best friend, and regardless of their fight she's going to come over to Quinn and praise her for being brave and tell her everything is going to be okay. Quinn takes a deep breath, preparing the "I'm sorry" on her lips to get the silly, meaningless fight out of the way.

But then Rachel looks away and continues to her chair, promptly seating herself. Quinn blinks, staring at the back of the brunette's head up in the first row. _Nothing_? Nothing at all? Stung more than she can internalize by such a small dismissal, Quinn feels her eyeballs beginning to prickle. What did she do wrong? Is Rachel still angry about the fight? Is she put off by Quinn now that she knows she's gay? This tops coming out of the closet in a crowded hallway as the worst thing to happen to her today.

Quinn remembers that today – and until further notice – she is under a giant spotlight in every classroom she enters, so with a little concentrated effort she wipes all traces of hurt and distress from her face. After a few blinks the subtle beginnings of loathsome tears evaporate. She may be a mess, but she'll always have control of this when it really counts. She glances at Rachel a few more times to make sure this isn't a trick – it's not – and takes a few deep breaths. As she wills class to just start already, she surreptitiously pulls her phone onto her lap, ignores thirteen notifications from random jocks and cheerleaders, and hesitantly taps out a message.

_rachel's ignoring me.. is it stupid of me to be upset? _

A few moments later Quinn's phone buzzes in response. The bell rings just as she opens the message.

_Santana: not stupid youre in your hour of need. Ngl thats not cool, berrys on my shit list for this_

Quinn sighs and worries her bottom lip between her teeth as the teacher begins to take attendance. She feels reassured of the fact that at least she's not being over-sensitive and needlessly upset – anytime Santana's response isn't to "quit being a pussy and fucking deal with it" is must be serious – but that just makes her more upset. It means that it's not all just in her head, and that something is really wrong. The thought makes her stomach churn. Santana's right, this _is_ Quinn's hour of need, and given Rachel's caring nature the brunette ought to be there for her friend. Aside from the fact that it's what Quinn desperately wants right now, it's _logical_. So what's the problem?

The rest of History is a morose daze for Quinn, caught up in a whirlwind of worry that's far more pressing than treaties from over a hundred years ago. When the bell rings, she jumps out of her seat as though poised on a spring, but she hesitates – does she go after Rachel? Should she even bother, or will further rejection only be too much to handle? Quinn's pause decides for her anyway; as she stands there at her desk indecisively, Rachel picks up her things and walks out. Quinn heaves a frustrated sigh, beyond distressed by this, and figures there's nothing else she can do but get to fourth period. She does just that.

Quinn tries to pay attention during fourth period, but when it's over and she leaves for lunch it's with a notebook full of halfhearted doodles and an apprehension of the impending cafeteria free-for-all. She sighs heavily as she trudges down the hallway towards her locker, lost in thought and hugging her books close. Why did the events of her day have to escalate so quickly? And on a _Monday_, could it possibly have been any worse? As Quinn passes by a classroom, she's yanked out of her thoughts as someone suddenly grabs her from the doorway and roughly pulls her inside. Nearly toppling over, she would let out a scream if she weren't so surprised.

"What are you-"

She quickly regains her wits and realizes she's in the chorus room as two strong pairs of arms hurry her into a chair at the bottom of the risers. Looking around, bewildered, Quinn identifies her kidnappers as Puck and Sam, with Santana turning on her heel and marching towards her. The room is empty besides the four of them.

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" Quinn barks, shrugging off the boys and glaring up at them.

"We're having a gayvention," Santana says heatedly.

"Excuse me?"

"What were you thinking?" Sam jumps in, practically panic-stricken as he circles around and rounds on Quinn.

Quinn's mind blanks. "I thought you of all people be _happy_ for me," she spits back indignantly, on harsh defensive lockdown even though she's caught up in a whirlwind of confusion.

"Did you ever stop to think how it would make me look that the girl I go out with suddenly comes out? How does that not scream _beard_?"

"What about me?" Puck pipes up, joining the other two hovering like vultures over Quinn. "Everyone knows I knocked you up. They're all gonna think my dick _broke_ you."

"Hold up, birdbrain," Santana interrupts sharply, "Being a lesbian is not a _defect_."

"It doesn't make a difference when all the girls at McKinley are gonna think the Puckrocket turns chicks _gay_!" he explodes, clutching the side of his head in distress.

Santana's face twists in obvious disgust. "I don't see jack shit wrong with that theory."

"Yeah, and the only girl I've been out with at this school is gay," Sam adds sourly, more to himself than to the others. "Seriously, what the hell does that say about _me_."

"Just _shut up_!" Quinn bursts, her voice a mixture of alarm and fury that causes the boys to step back. She bristles, staring down the trio in front of her indignantly. "Listen, I'm sorry about your respective manhoods but I really couldn't care less about that right now. Not to be a selfish bitch, but seeing as how _I've_ just come out, _your_ reputations are the last things on my mind right now."

"I-"

"But-"

"She's right," Santana interrupts dryly, cutting short the half-baked protests coming from Puck and Sam.

"_Thank_ you."

"What you should be worrying about is your own reputation," she continues, voice and eyes turning severe as she rounds on Quinn again. The brunette crosses her arms. "Seriously, Quinn, what _were_ you thinking?"

Quinn shakes her head. "Not you too. Come on, I…" She sighs, biting her lip and looking from side to side before frowning up at Santana. "I really need at least _someone_ on my team right now."

"Trust me, I'm on your team." The irony isn't lost on Quinn. The brunette gazes down at her with hardened sympathy. "But this is some real heavy shit right here. You might have scared off those idiot jocks with the element of surprise, but you saw them out there. They're out for blood."

Quinn shifts in her chair uneasily, not wanting to face the truth in her friend's words. Sam and Puck stand behind Santana, watching the exchange grimly with their hands shoved in their pockets.

"Listen," Santana goes on, voice softening as she moves closer. "I'm impressed as fuck, but I'm worried about you, Q. What happened to what we talked about the other night? Keeping a low profile and staying safe?"

It's not easy for Quinn to hold eye contact with Santana given the large amount of turbulent emotions billowing inside her. She takes in the searching tint to her friend's eyes and mouth, and knowing that she's ignited pained worry in someone who really cares for her makes this whole thing seem much more real. The sensation floods her with cold guilt and doubt.

"I wasn't thinking," Quinn admits slowly. She bites her lip, mind racing a million miles a minute about how to explain herself. "I had no intention to out myself, but it just _happened_." Gripping the seat of the plastic chair she's sitting on with white knuckles, Quinn seeks out the faces of Puck and Sam as well. "And for better or worse, it's been done. So we all have to make the best of it."

It's quiet for a minute. Puck appraises her carefully, a twinge of guilt painting his features. "For what it's worth," he pipes up, hesitantly breaking the silence, "I thought it was really badass how you stood up to Karofsky like that. You came out with purpose, and I totally respect the hell out of that."

Quinn regards Puck's sheepish half-smile for a moment, unsure of how to take in what he's said. She bursts into tears.

"Hey!" Puck exclaims, alarmed. He moves quickly to Quinn's side and shrugs a heavy arm around her. "I'm sorry, please don't cry."

In any other circumstance Quinn would be absolutely mortified by this show of weakness, but after everything that's happened today that dam has burst and she can't hold it in. Her mouth crumples as tears stream down her face; Sam comes around the other side of her and puts a comforting arm around her hitching shoulder.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you like that," the blond boy says sincerely, albeit hesitantly as sobbing girls seem to be a foreign thing to him. "I was being stupid. You _were_ really brave."

That makes Quinn cry harder.

"It's okay," Puck reassures, even more bewildered as he mirrors Sam's clumsy reluctance to set her off even more. "We were just being assholes. We take it back – right, Sam?"

"Yeah, of course."

"See? We're here for you."

"I kn-know that," Quinn hiccups, long past the point of being able to control this violent outpouring of emotion. "Tha-that's why I'm crying."

"Oh, Quinn," Santana sighs. Her expression is déjà vu of that fond sympathy from Friday night. Those two words coupled with a soft shaken head communicate something like, "you poor lost little lamb", or, "you admirable and fucked up creature". Both could probably be true. Santana moves up silently and embraces her, completing the trifecta as the standing girl hugs Quinn's head to her polyester stomach. Even though these three people had accosted her not five minutes ago, preoccupied by their own worries, they now embrace her awkwardly and kindly and it makes Quinn sob ridiculously harder. It always surprises her to no end when people actually give a shit about her. She hasn't felt this emotionally turbulent since her pregnancy.

The faint creak of the choir room door tears Quinn's face from Santana's warm and slightly scratchy abdomen distractedly, Puck's and Sam's respective arms still draped around the blonde loosely. Santana turns towards the sound, affording Quinn a view of the door, and there's Rachel. The tiny brunette, stilling in the doorway, looks as surprised as the others having walked in on such a strange scene: Santana, Puck, and Sam cocooning a tearstained Quinn. The blonde's mind registers in this frozen moment only a fearful and fierce _go away just go away_. Or maybe, she thinks impulsively as Santana strides over to the door, it's not that but _come hold on to me I need you too_. Maybe both.

"This room is occupied," Santana barks, accosting Rachel's personal space in the doorway.

"But I was just…" Rachel's bewildered gaze darts over Santana's shoulder and lands on Quinn. Upon taking in her friend's obviously fragile state, Rachel's brow knits in wounded and sympathetic worry; Quinn doesn't say anything.

Santana moves to the side and blocks Rachel's view. "Did you hear me, dwarf? Just get out."

"I didn't mean to interrupt anything, I just wanted to practice in here during my free period." Rachel cranes her neck to try and see around Santana. "What's going on? Is Qui- is everything okay?"

"Everything's peaches and cream, _Berry_," Santana spits, advancing hostilely on her stiff Mary-Jane-clad prey. "Not that you would fucking care." Quinn hasn't seen her this genuinely angry in a long time, and part of her wants to stop her from being so mean to Rachel. Another part of her breaks in two inside from how maddeningly casual Rachel is; Quinn remains glued to her chair, at a loss for action.

"I…" Rachel stammers, clearly as caught off guard as Quinn feels, "I don't know what you're…"

"Don't play dumb," Santana snarls. She stares vehemently down her nose at the girl she'd defended at lunch three days ago. "You're a flighty, fair-weather motherfucker and you're not doing anyone any favors by standing there with your _thumb_ in your ass, pretending that you didn't leave Quinn high and dry when she really needed you. Real friends don't bolt when their friend is gay, which is why _we're_ in here with Quinn and _you're_ knocking on the door trying to get in to run some _scales_." Santana pauses to suck air through her teeth and regard the speechless girl in front of her with cool contempt. "You make me sick. Take your selfish ass back to study hall, because I can't even _look_ at you right now."

Rachel's jaw quivers as she meets Santana's aggressive gaze. In the breathless beat of silence following the explosion, Quinn feels as though she could cut the tension with a sharp enough knife. It would at least be too thick for the plastic, barely-serrated cafeteria knives, she muses dizzily. The thought is ridiculously, inappropriately pointless, but it distracts her from Santana's bull-like nose-breathing and Rachel's tear-clouded brown eyes. It's those minor body language details in this confrontation that she can't take, because they will tip her over the edge of sanity. Just as Quinn about loses it from the tear-gas-tension, Rachel turns on her heel – fists balled at her sides – and wordlessly walks out the door.

The spell is broken.

Santana turns back to the risers in a business-like manner, Quinn deflates, Sam clucks his teeth worriedly, and Puck gets to his feet.

"Was that _really_ necessary?" he challenges Santana.

"It had to be said," she replies coolly.

"I can stand up for myself," Quinn murmurs woodenly, automatically, but no one hears her. Sam looks at her but doesn't say anything.

"Come on," Puck entreats, "You could have cut Rachel a break. She didn't do anything."

"Exactly," the brunette counters impatiently. "Her so-called best friend is on day four of a crisis and she hasn't done jack shit. That is _not_ okay; trust me, I've already made that mistake."

"Okay sure, that sucks, but I don't think it's that easy for Berry. She's kinda fucking _terrified_ of Quinn."

"Dude, so are we," Sam points out honestly, "But we're still here."

Santana pulls a face. "You hypocrites agreed to the gayvention so you could yell at her."

"Wait," Quinn interrupts from her seat on the risers, ignoring the others and frowning at Puck. "What do you mean, Rachel's terrified of me?"

He shrugs. "She doesn't get you, and you totally freak her out half the time. Why else do you think she was banging on my door Friday night begging me to help her figure you out?"

Quinn gapes, a brisk shock of realization clicking in her brain. "That… was _you_? You were the guy who was with Rachel when I called that night?"

Puck sighs, clearly worn out by all the drama. "Yeah. She was all bent out of shape over some stupid girl fight you guys had and wanted my advice for how to deal with you so she wouldn't piss you off any more – apparently I'm the Quinn whisperer or something because I knocked you up. Anyway, I told her to give you some space and wait for you to come around on your own terms."

"You idiot!" Santana smacks him hard on the arm.

"Ow!"

"This is your fault!

"Fuck." Quinn blows a hot jet of air between her lips, sitting back in her seat in a daze as the others squabble. She tunes them out, focusing on the throbbing headache of thoughts that are warring inside her. Sure, she's frustrated to no end with Rachel and sort of liked seeing Santana confront her. But at the same time her stupid autonomous heart loves her and yearns for this all to be a big misunderstanding, wants to hate Santana for butting in so cruelly, wants to latch on to the distance being Puck's fault more than anything. Okay, so maybe there doesn't necessarily have to be a blame game, but still; if what he'd said is true then that means Rachel _doesn't_ hate her. The tiny brunette was maintaining a calm, cool distance for, for…

Quinn clears her throat restlessly, stung by the bittersweet realization. Rachel had avoided her to do her a favor. It's thoughtful – and of course just like Rachel to barge into someone's house to get the answers to this kind of anomaly – but the avoidance thing is _not_ just like Rachel. Quinn recognizes that it goes against her wiring to behave in such a way, and she's touched. At the same time, however, she realizes sadly that that's something she didn't want with Rachel. Sure, the tactic would have been an immense relief from literally _anyone else_ who was bothering her – and she's astounded that Puck would have the insight to know that – but of course Rachel is the exception to the rule. _Of course_.

So what does this mean for her, for them? Does Quinn instantly forgive Rachel everything and chalk it all up to misunderstanding? If Quinn is being honest about her feelings – which is a new thing she's trying to do more often – then it's really not that easy. She still has misgivings, and she still feels a childishly needy but unignorable desire to be _fought_ for. She has absolutely no idea how to make sense of it.

"I should get going," Quinn announces, getting to her feet for the first time since being dragged into the room. The period is almost over. Her stomach growls; so much for lunch.

Santana and Puck, whose sibling-like bickering had somehow veered onto the track of whether or not Topanga is a stupid name, go silent. Sam, sitting and listening quietly, looks up at her.

"Yeah," Santana sighs, "Lunch hour's almost over." Sam stands up, and Puck runs a hand through his mohawk. They're embarrassed with one another now for speaking so passionately minutes before, all of them preparing to back out into the hallways and act casually natural. Quinn might let her fear of showing emotion cripple her, but she knows that her peers all feel it too, to some degree. Everyone worries about having said too much, about having let too much show. She could attribute it to that teenage nightmare, or it could be a human reality that has nothing to do with age.

"Maybe there's still some cheese fries," Puck says to himself, moving towards the door to leave. "I'll see you guys."

"Hey, Puck?" He looks over his shoulder at the sound of Quinn's voice. Oddly enough, she doesn't want him to go, or for any of them to go. It's silly, because she was the one heading out the door to begin with. It has something to do with magical spells, the love and friendship and support kind, being broken. Who knows when she'll get these people to say a kind word to her again. But her mouth twitches at the corner in the ghost of a smile. "Sorry about your manhood."

He shrugs. "I'll get over it. Sorry I yelled at you."

"I was total bitch to you at your party a few weeks ago, I think I deserve a taste of my own medicine every now and then." It's the closest she's ever gotten to an apology of this kind, and that's fucking rare. Puck knows it, and he smirks fondly.

"Fair enough," he replies simply, and after a short farewell-head-nod to the others, he leaves.

"Well…" Sam sighs through his lips and looks around the room awkwardly.

"Yeah," Quinn agrees with his unspoken goodbye, "Let's go."

"I'm sorry too," Sam admits, clapping a gentle hand on her shoulder as the three of them traipse to the door. "I should have had your back all along, 'cause what you did today was really brave."

Quinn smiles at him. "Thanks, Sam," she replies genuinely. As the boy flashes another of his trademark boyish grins and exits the room, Santana holds on to Quinn's wrist to keep her from going yet. Quinn turns to her friend expectantly.

"I'm not gonna apologize like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dipshit did," Santana begins pointedly, her right hand planted on her hip. Quinn hides a smile, expecting nothing less. "I stick by what I said," she continues, "because I _do_ worry about you. You're really special to me, Q."

Looking into Santana's uncharacteristically softened eyes, Quinn feels her heart clench and thanks god that she has a friend like this. "It means a lot," she says sincerely. "And I feel the same way about you."

"I know," Santana responds, looking down at her knees with a wry, almost sheepish, grin, "Because no one else would have done what you did for me today. I never, um…" She looks back into Quinn's eyes with a heartfelt intensity, and – is that the hint of tears? – Quinn feels herself almost overwhelmed by emotion again. "I never thanked you for that."

Quinn leans against the doorframe, hands clasped behind her back rubbing mushed against the cool painted metal. "It was nothing," she says with ridiculously understated modesty. She was sure just an hour ago that her whole world was going to end but now, faced with gratitude and the fact that there is a solid and loving support system under her, all she can manage is manners. It feels right. Her words don't feel hollow or forced.

Wet-sounding laughter bubbles from Santana's chest. "Bull_shit_, it was." Quinn half-laughs too, realizing that she's half-crying and realizing that after today she'll be emotionally exhausted for the rest of the year. Fuck if it matters. The two girls simultaneously move in for a clumsy, yet perfectly synchronized hug.

"You're the bravest motherfucker I know, Fabray," Santana murmurs warmly into the honey-colored hair behind Quinn's ear. The blonde squeezes tighter, trying to communicate as much gratitude as she can in the tight loop of her arms before letting go.

"Stop crying," she admonishes with a smile, bowing her head and dabbing at her eyes with her wrist.

"Oh, fuck you, Melissa Etheridge." Santana mirrors the action. While they moon about bashfully drying their eyes (it's embarrassing but it's the best feeling Quinn's had all day) the bell rings in the background.

Quinn groans. "I've opened up a Pandora's box of names you can call me now, haven't I?"

Santana leads the way out the door, sniffing once and smiling broadly. "You betcha."

The swirl of chatter and activity that greets them when they slip into the hallway is almost jarring in comparison to the hour of close discussion they'd snatched away. Quinn looks over at Santana before heading off to her free period. "See you at Glee?"

"Yeah, see you then."

Making her way down the crowded hallway, Quinn actually feels pretty good. She's still jittery from these coming-out-nerves, but after the pow-wow in the choir room the symptoms are considerably better than they'd been before. Sure, the "gayvention" (how unimaginative can you get?) was meant to chastise her, but through some blessed turn of events it turned into the most effective and meaningful show of support; really, all she needed was to know that _some_one was there for her. She got three (technically four, since Brittany would undoubtedly have been there if not for the fact that she was in tutoring that period). Even the stares and whispers that follow her like magnets as she walks down the shiny red floor mean next to nothing, and that's a stage she never thought she would get at. Halfway committed to a smile as she approaches her locker, Quinn wonders if coming out can actually mean something _good_ for her.

_Splash_.

Quinn stops dead in her tracks as a sludgy shock of ice sears her skin. Sputtering silently, she struggles to blink open her eyes without stinging them with corn syrup.

Finn stands before her. She can't breathe for how little she expected this from him. Finn, flanked by Azimio and two other jocks Quinn doesn't know, doesn't smirk as the others do. Gripping the empty cup, lined with the traces of slushy red ice that looks like congealed blood, he glares at the frozen cheerleader in front of him with a look of smug, concentrated determination.

"I remember you like cherry," he states, cruelly referencing their trips as boyfriend and girlfriend to 7-11 as the jocks behind him slap palms and fist bump. His is a mask of revenge. The entire corridor is a mass of silent and disbelieving eyes, watching Finn reproachfully but still regaining the awful claustrophobic potency that Quinn had always feared in them. Quinn, trembling fingernails and numb earlobes and jackhammer heartbeat, feels herself about to fly to pieces.

"_Finn Hudson!_"

The outraged exclamation reverberates among the metal lockers. Quinn is too numb to turn her head and see where it's coming from but she _knows_ it's Rachel, _hates_ that it's Rachel, _needs_ it to be Rachel. The tiny brunette marches into Quinn's line of vision like a steamroller, nostrils flaring from a terrifying anger Quinn has never seen in her. She doesn't even stop to regain her breath; as soon as she reaches her tall ex-boyfriend she rears back and slaps him across the face. _Hard_.

If it was quiet before, in the wake of the echoed _smack_ the hallway is as silent as a tomb. "You are a despicable, selfish, ignorant boy," Rachel hisses, finger pointed in Finn's shocked and half-tomato-red face, "and you are dead to me."

"But Rachel," he protests foggily. His hands fly to the livid hand-shaped welt on his left cheek, and he seems more bewildered than anything that it's there. He seems genuinely astounded by Rachel's wrath, as though it was completely undeserved. She doesn't listen. She's already turned on her heel and stalked over to the equally-as-perplexed Quinn.

"Come on, Quinn," she murmurs, eyes still stormy, and grips the blonde (with red highlights) by the bicep. Dazed, Quinn allows herself to be led to the girls' locker room, red ice falling from her upper body with every step. They leave a trail like bloody breadcrumbs.

There's not another soul in the locker room when the two girls enter. They pass silently – like ghosts – through the bathroom portion and Quinn stops when she sees her reflection. The girl in the mirror doesn't look like Quinn. The girl looks like Carrie in a cheerleading costume. Her hair is stringy and wet, her face is streaked with corn syrup, and the white of her uniform practically blends in with the red. The stain is unlikely to come out in the wash.

"Here," Rachel mutters distractedly, worrying over a clumping of ice on Quinn's shoulder like a mother hen. She brushes it off into the sink, and Quinn recoils from her touch.

"You're missing lunch," she points out. Hesitant and unsure in Rachel's presence all of a sudden, it's all she can think of to say.

Rachel sighs. "I guess that makes both of us, then." She looks Quinn up and down as though deciding what to do with her next, then takes the blonde by the hand and shepherds her from the sinks to the showers.

They go into the shower area and pause in front of the separate row of curtained stalls. There's no way Quinn will rinse off in that open, claustrophobic communal shower room – not after last year, after the first time. She can't do that.

Just… no. This time will be different. It has to be. She can't fall apart this time, because being pregnant is nine months and being gay is for good. She has to figure out a way to suck it up, and even though the way to do so isn't exactly clear right now, the first step is to get in that stall as soon as possible and rinse off all traces of defeat.

As she tugs her sticky hair free of its ponytail, she exhales tiredly, as though she does this every day. Yearning so much to get under the warm water and wash away her sticky red self-loathing, Quinn is zoning out in shower-routine-mode and reaching behind for her zipper when she realizes Rachel is still standing there, staring. The brunette stands next to Quinn, fidgeting awkwardly as though waiting to jump in and help. Quinn gives her a pointed look.

"I can undress myself." The second closest light flickers slightly, as though excited that rapport between Quinn and Rachel has regressed a year.

"Right," comes the embarrassed response. She backs away slowly, appearing worried still and unconvinced that Quinn doesn't need her help with the back zipper. It occurs to Quinn that Rachel must be desperate to compensate for her absence over the weekend and all morning. She isn't sure how she feels about that aside from exhausted and cynical about the whole thing (the numb ice melting only to reveal stone), but she sighs in assent anyway.

"My towel and extra uniform are in my locker. It's number thirty-one."

Rachel nods in understanding and exits the room. Alone, Quinn heaves yet another sigh and wonders how it's come to this. Just ten minutes ago she'd left the choir room feeling this strange, unfamiliar feeling of _optimism_, and now she doesn't know how to face the rest of McKinley ever again. She hisses as she eases under the water – too hot. How is she supposed to face Rachel, for that matter? The way she feels about her right now is tangled and absolutely incomprehensible under the numb calm of survival mode. She ponders which is better for survival: staying away from the headache and the heartache that the object of her unrequited feelings will bring, or relying on the brunette as a much-needed additive bolster to her support system?

The towel and spare uniform are sitting modestly on the bench when Quinn exits the shower. She quickly gets dressed and walks cautiously into the locker area where Rachel is waiting, seated and fidgeting.

"Hi." Quinn announces her presence simply. Regardless of her subtlety, Rachel (distracted by her cuticles) jumps about a foot in the air. Quinn sighs, assailed by guilty pity; wasn't intimidated Rachel a thing of the past? Wasn't that a painful past, one they're lucky enough to have escaped from?

Rachel jumps to her feet and lays into the apologies immediately, brow knit anxiously. "Quinn, I'm so sorr-"

"Don't worry about it."

The brunette stops in her tracks. "What? I thought you were mad at me."

Quinn looks to the side and exhales. "I was," she admits honestly, "But I got over it. We shouldn't be fighting like this. Not when it's because we keep second-guessing how to speak to one another."

"So you talked to Puck," Rachel half asks, half states sheepishly, eyes downcast.

"I did. I wish we could have talked to each other, though, instead of going through him."

"You're right," Rachel murmurs, her always readable face betraying lingering guilt. "I'm so sorry."

"Rachel," Quinn sighs, moving forward. She hates to see her friend looking so pitiful. It's exasperating, and yet… heartbreaking? Part of her wants so badly to stay injured and angry, but when all is said and done she can't do it. She just can't do it. Their friendship is really fucking valuable to Quinn, and to have it suffer at the expense of ego or a grudge is not what she wants. She realizes this now. Is this how Rachel felt all the times she'd forgiven Quinn? Is that why she'd given in so often, because she cared more about her friend than her own pride?

"Listen." Quinn puts her hands on Rachel's shoulders, searching out her eyes intently until the brunette looks up. She abandons the brisk, dismissive confidence of her last few statements as she searches for the right words; if she wants to do this right for once, she has to go out on a limb.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm figuring out a lot of stuff right now. A lot of that is about who I am, and one of the things I'm realizing – among other things – is that I'm a pretty difficult person to deal with. I know…" She takes a deep breath, mustering the courage to maintain eye contact with Rachel. "…I know I have had a lot of issues with people being there for me, but… I need to make it easier _for_ people to be there for me. In the past I've always pushed people away and then wondered why no one was there for me when I needed someone. I don't want that to happen anymore." Quinn expels a jet of air from between her teeth. "Especially with you, Rachel."

The entire time during Quinn's speech – which felt like it had been wrenched from deep inside of her with rusty pliers – Rachel's eyes were filling with tears again, and Quinn worries that the brunette's overwhelming guilt had only gotten worse. She's about to open her mouth and hastily go on – say _anything_ to placate this poor girl who's obviously terrified of letting down the only friend she's got – when Rachel's lips slowly form a watery smile. She chokes back one of those hybrid sob-laugh sounds and in one swift movement throws her arms around Quinn and hugs her close. It's just so trademark affectionate Rachel that Quinn sighs into the embrace, hugs back, and just _melts_ in relief.

"I knew there was a reason why I always wanted to know you," Rachel breathes warmly.

If Quinn had melted before, now she is a puddle on the floor. It's bittersweet; she feels so torn, holding Rachel close, feeling the glow of her body heat and inhaling the melon scent of her shampoo, and knowing that she means those words only as a friend. But at the same time Quinn's heart swells with gratitude knowing that, even as "just friends", Rachel cares about her so much. She doesn't know how to verbalize what she feels – and she may have said enough already – so she just squeezes back. Tight.

"I'm blown away," Rachel says when they pull apart. Her eyes sparkle from the force of her smile. "Just _look_ at you. You've come so far; I mean, just a year ago it was Quinn against the world and today you're this incredibly open, and forgiving, and- and self-aware person. You're letting yourself be the you that was always deep down there." She reaches out and grasps Quinn's hands in her own, and she doesn't have to come right out and say it for the blonde to know she's referring to her sexuality too. "I'm so proud of you, Quinn."

Not for the first time today, Quinn finds herself moved to tears by the sheer love of her friends. She doesn't bother swiping at the streaks on her cheekbones – she's past embarrassment, here in the bare locker room hand in hand with Rachel Berry. If there is any time that's alright for her to show emotion, it's now.

"You didn't… you didn't know, did you?" Quinn blurts out of nowhere. "Was it… a surprise? You know, me being gay." She's firmly reassured of Rachel's support for her, but now that she knows they're okay again, she finds herself ravenously wondering about the reception of her secret. She'd been obsessed with keeping it from Rachel for months, how could she not be curious to know if she'd succeeded?

Rachel plops back down on the bench and looks off at the lockers thoughtfully. "I had some suspicions," she responds, brow furrowing (cutely) as she thinks hard; Quinn holds her breath. "You know how little suspicions can be, though. There are those miniscule things that you notice, that you wonder about for maybe half a second, but you don't _really_ believe yourself. If anything ever tipped off my gaydar I never took it seriously. I mean, for example, sometimes when I watch Chicago I think that Velma Kelly has a crush on Roxy Hart… but I don't really believe that that's true. Bitter, rivalry-induced tension doesn't mean sexual tension, not to mention the fact that they were both clearly invested in Billy Flynn." Rachel frowns. "Does that make any sense? Do you know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean," Quinn replies slowly, utterly dazed by the direction the conversation has taken but getting it all the same. "Sometimes I think the same about Janis Ian and Regina George."

"So no," Rachel barrels on, "I hadn't guessed that you were in the closet." She pauses abruptly and thoughtfully bites her bottom lip – suddenly, her eyes go wide and she jumps to her feet. "Had you…" Self-conscious, Rachel stops short when a caught off guard Quinn instinctively steps back. She takes a breath and starts again. "Had you been keeping this bottled up for a long time? Was there something I did that made you feel you couldn't tell me?"

The truth won't do anyone any favors right now. "No," Quinn lies right away, but it's a lie she tells without hesitation or remorse in the face of Rachel's round and anxious eyes. "You didn't do anything." _That's_ true, and she wants Rachel to know that. Stepping closer, Quinn smiles wryly. "You know how I am. I try to tackle everything all by myself. So yeah, it did stay inside for a long time – and that's why. I never wanted to need help – or-or to make myself vulnerable, but maybe I should have. Maybe then it wouldn't have been such a long and difficult process to final come to terms with the fact that… I'm gay."

Quinn heaves a huge breath in saying it, letting out so much air it feels like she's expelling a ghost that had been trapped inside. _This was the big one_. Out of every damn person, she never thought she'd be standing in front of Rachel Berry, exhaling the real, physical, audible words: "_I'm gay._"

Rachel just lets a huge, warm grin spread slowly across her face. Quinn would come out to her a thousand more times over just to be on the receiving end of that smile. "I'm still completely and utterly in shock," the brunette replies, "And to be quite frank with you, it will take a good amount of getting used to. I think… there's a part of me that will always find it hard to see you as anything but that girl who had every boy I'd ever wanted. But I know you'll be happier now. I _know_ it, Quinn." She shakes her head for emphasis, eyes glittering in a way that makes Quinn's heart clench. The brunette earnestly moves closer. "You know you can come to me with anything, okay? I was somewhat less than reliable all weekend, but you've got to let me prove to you that I'm capable of being a formidable source of support. Thanks to my dads I'm very familiar with the resources provided by PFLAG and The ACLU, if that's something you feel you might ever need in your burgeoning journey as a queer woman. I'm going to be your biggest ally, Quinn, just you wait."

"Slow down, Rachel," Quinn replies with a laugh. She finds herself grinning from a dizzying emotional combination; she's exhausted and overwhelmed, but also grateful and charmed by Rachel's eager, rambling speech. "All I need you to do for me is be okay with this."

"Of course I am," Rachel answers quickly, her expression communicating shock that she could ever be anything but. How could Quinn have ever worried? Her paranoia had rendered her far too afraid of her very best resource. Excepting the deeper feelings that Quinn had (and still is keeping) hidden, there was no rational reason to stay closeted to Rachel.

"Then…" she sighs, "Then I'm good."

"Really?" Rachel eyes her carefully.

Quinn thinks about it for a second. Maybe she is so utterly overwhelmed by the whirlwind of stares and slushies and support that she can't tell _what_ she's feeling, or _what_ is going to happen next. Everything is happening so fast, and every new curveball manages to throw her for a loop. She may not be able to figure out if she's happy to have leapt out of the closet, or even if it was the right decision, until after an entire month of detoxing and getting good sleep. It's all so tangled right now. But she takes a deep breath – one of many just in this exchange with Rachel, she needs all the oxygen she can get – and feels herself still standing. She's got a clean uniform on, she's got her best friend beaming by her side, and she's _still on her own two feet_. Security and a clear-cut happily-ever-after aren't a sure thing right now, but Quinn loops her arm through Rachel's and knows they're going to go back to class, take notes, gossip with friends, and _function_. It's doable.

"Really," Quinn answers firmly. She guides Rachel out of the locker room and towards the door. "Do you think there's still cheese fries in the cafeteria?"

"For your sake, I hope not. Understandably, you're probably famished, but I can't think of anything much worse for your body than a gluey processed cheese substitute on top of fried starch."

"Don't bully me like that. This is a hate crime."


End file.
